Purgatory
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: The full story of what life was like for Peter and Sylar while they were imprisoned behind The Wall-their struggle to keep their sanity and humanity as they realize the only way out is penitence and forgiveness. The Wall tag. NO SLASH COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Please Review!_

Purgatory

"A place or state of punishment wherein according to Roman Catholic doctrine the souls of those who die in God's grace may expiate venial sins or satisfy divine justice for the temporal punishment still due to remitted mortal sin."

-Webster's Dictionary

Time. It pressed down upon him, and yet stretched on ahead and behind him. He felt it passing with every breath. Each second ticked within his head—perfectly-measured seconds, minutes and hours. Time was Sylar's only companion, the only other entity that moved and acted, changing day to night and back again. He could almost hear his internal clock speaking into the silence. It resounded more loudly than anything—even his heartbeat.

And yet nothing changed.

Every day, the towering sky remained a distant blue, dotted with passive clouds. The wind blew limply, just enough to carry a discontented nip. The buildings stood like monoliths, but never crumbled. No birds lighted upon their upper beams. No squirrels chattered in the boughs of the motionless trees. Nothing at all drew breath in this vast, empty, inescapable place.

Except him.

At first, he had wandered the streets like a madman, bursting through doors—they were always open—to find empty rooms, empty walkways and empty parking lots. He had screamed every name he knew, the cries tearing his throat and echoing against the unforgiving surfaces. He had clawed at his hair, howled up at the deaf heavens, and finally collapsed; sobbing so hard he was certain the pain in his chest would kill him.

His footsteps had carried him here and there, sometimes determined, sometimes listless, in an effort to discover some doorway, some gate, some tunnel out of here and back into the world he remembered. But as the days passed, and the silence weighed him down, his steps slowed, and he began rambling through a certain block. Eventually, he went inside one of the buildings on that block, and the quiet became even more complete as the wind was shut out.

His invisible clock, which rested deep inside the base of his throat, began to tick then, more loudly than during his meanderings. And the passage of time hit him like the vengeful nails that had been driven into his hands of late. A month. He had been here a _month_.

He had curled up in a corner, then, shaking. His mind whirled with equal portions of poisonous hatred and terror. He had no power here. He was like a mortal man. Except he had not eaten in a month, nor slept, and nothing had happened to his body. He had not even grown a beard.

He had pressed his hands to his face, trying to breathe, and at the same time wondering if he even needed to.

That had been when he heard a sound.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

He had pressed a hand to his chest, wondering if he was losing his mind to an even greater degree. But no, that sound was outside himself. He had gotten up, trailed up the stairs and into another room.

He had stopped. It was an empty room with windows, and a desk in the far corner. And on that desk sat an old-fashioned pocket watch.

He had lunged at it. Swiping the little, cool metal piece up in trembling hands, he tilted his head down and listened.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

He nearly wept again. It was just half a second too slow. Choking and then clearing his throat, his eyes had darted around to find something with which to unscrew the back—not just any tool would do if he meant to keep it undamaged. He rooted through the room but found nothing. Attaching the watch chain to one of his black buttons, he put the time piece in his pea coat pocket and headed out in search of a little screwdriver.

This wide and obsessive search kept him occupied for days. He collected multiple tools—magnifying glasses, screwdrivers, little hammers, delicate jewelry equipment and engraving tools. And he also found more watches and clocks. He took them all back to that first room with the desk, and sat, tinkering with all of them, even those that looked half-smashed. He filled the room with gadgets as one by one he synchronized every watch. The _tick, tick, tick_ grew louder with each accomplishment—they all joined their voices in perfect chorus, as one voice, as he put them to rights, fixed what was broken, and restored their purpose. His hands worked deftly, his attention focused completely.

And thus, he _never _lost track of time.

A year passed. He learned every corner of this bleak, never-changing city as he searched for more watches and yes, perhaps a doorway that may lead out. He memorized the clouds that drifted past in the same order, in the same direction. He knew each tree, each stone, each crack in the cement.

A second year.

The whole of his room thudded with a steady _tick, tick, tick_. He loved that sound. His own heart beat in syncopated rhythm to it. It was almost as if someone else sat with him while he worked.

Almost.

A third year.

He did not mark the days. He did not have to. He knew the passage of time, felt its every movement. But the reason he had been sent here faded away. The place and his existence in it lost its confusion and panic, and settled down into soft, tragic monotony. By the third month of his third year, he had forgotten the sound of his own voice.

By the fifth, he forgot his name.

In the sixth hour of his fifth day of his fourth year, he sat perched behind that desk, working on a wristwatch. It was the third one he had built out of the parts of other useless watches.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

His pulse beat against the ticking. He felt it in his throat, chest and wrists. He finished the watch. He glanced over it, then set it in a pile atop the others.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

He heard a sound. He froze.

_Tick, tick, tick._

_ Thud._

It had had shuddered through the floor, against his chest. In perfect time with his heart.

_Thud…Thud…Thud. _

And then a light. A light he did not see, but it broke through his mind, just behind the corner of his left eye, out of sight. A white, piercing, narrow light.

He stood up, his heart beating fast.

Something had changed.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_You will recognize some of the dialogue from the show. These scenes are essential to the story—and there WILL be more inserted. LOTS more. Enjoy, and please review!_

Part Two

He glanced up at the blank sky, then all around him. His heart continued to pound. The thudding he had heard did not fade. Instead, it took on a metallic undertone. He hurried down the exact middle of the wide street, hands tucked in his pockets. He took a breath.

"Hello?" His voice came out hoarse, and cracked like an old man's. But he shouted louder, desperation rising. "_Hello?"_

Thud.

It came from just behind him. He halted. The street lights turned yellow. He turned around. Thrills shot through him. The light turned red.

A figure stood at the other end of the street. Right in the middle.

He stared, his mind whirling. A person…?

_A person!_

He leaned forward, brow furrowing, eyes sharpening. Impossible. No. He was imagining this. The whole thing.

Then recognition hit him like a slap.

He knew this man's face.

"Peter!" he breathed. The name shuddered in his chest, sounding strange in his mouth. The man met his eyes, and began to walk toward him. Drawn by an invisible force, Sylar strode toward the stranger as well, eyes widening. The figure kept approaching, and did not vanish like the other visions that had haunted his nightmares. Sylar spoke, half to himself, unable to stay silent."Is that _really _you?"

Peter—yes, Peter Patrelli, the kid with dark hair, serious blue eyes and a hard-set mouth; the kid he had met in some dream of a dream long ago—threw down the metal pole he had been banging against the cement. It clattered against the street. Peter kept coming. Shaking with terror, but unable to contain his curiosity, Sylar stretched out a hand toward him.

"I came to get you outta here."

Peter's words hit his eardrums like hammers. It took a moment for him to understand them—and even then, they remained distant until the moment the palm of his hand met the dark fabric of Peter's shoulder, and the warmth and solidity beneath. His eyes flew to Peter's.

"It is you, isn't it?" he gasped. Then he withdrew his hand, feeling the center of it sting—he dismissed the pain, and glanced around the emptiness. "I thought I was alone here—that everyone was dead." His mind still reeling, he faced Peter again. "What are you doing here?

"I came to drag your sorry butt out of here," he said frankly. "Now let's go."

Sylar stared at him intently, bemused.

"There is no getting out of here, Peter." Once again, he glanced up and down the empty street. "I've tried. For three years."

"Three years?" Peter said in disbelief. "What are you talking about? It's been three _hours_."

That was wrong. The sideways ridiculousness of that statement stuck in Sylar's throat. He backed up.

"Wait a minute." He withdrew three more steps. "You're not…really here. You're not real." He whirled around, searching the upper balconies of the buildings, and the traitorous sky above. "This is my mind, isn't it? This is my mind playing tricks on me as part of my punishment, isn't it?" Panic and rage jolted through his blood, and he whirled on the apparition of Peter—the one probably sent by the maker of this hell. "You think I'm gonna let you taunt me?" He shook his head, and pointed at Peter severely. "You stay away. If you follow me, I will kill you, do you understand me?!" He broke into a full-blown run, his feet hammering the cement. The next instant, he heard pursuing footsteps.

"_Sylar!"_

His heart skipped a beat. His vision blurred.

Sylar.

His name.

His _name_.

VVV

Wow. Peter hadn't expected _that_. He had picked up the pole initially to use when Sylar attacked him. Then, when he had wandered around for a few minutes and found nothing, he had used it for a noisemaker. But when he had seen Sylar for the first time, he knew he would not need a weapon. He barely recognized the guy.

Sylar had approached him as Peter imagined someone would approach an angel. And when Sylar had touched his shoulder, Peter had caught a glimpse of something in Sylar's eyes that he had _never _deemed possible.

Pure, relieved delight.

It was just a flash, and was soon drowned by a listless uncertainty, and a distant haze behind his countenance, like a lost person who thought he had seen a familiar landmark.

And then came the next surprise.

When Sylar suddenly felt threatened, he did not square up and fight.

He ran.

And Peter, shocked, chased after him, yelling his name.

He chased the creep all the way down a block and into a building, then straight into a little room filled with clocks and mountains of books. Peter bit back his shock at the tactical error. Sylar had actually trapped himself. Now he stood facing Peter, his eyes wild, his back to a desk, brandishing a hammer.

"I swear I'll kill you! Get out of my head!"

Peter put his hands up. He was not sure what that hammer would do to him in here, but he didn't want to take any more risks than he was already taking.

"Calm down," he soothed. "I am telling you the truth. I came to take you outta here."

Sylar's expression flickered.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

Peter stepped closer, his hands still up, knowing that even a hardened killer should be freaked out right now.

"I went to Parkman's house to look for you. He put you here. This is a dream."

"No, it's _not_ a dream!" Sylar shouted. Peter fought against backing up. Sylar gazed out the window out of the corner of his eye, looking like a cornered cat.

"This is real."

Peter frowned, still not following his logic.

"You really don't understand that this is all just a nightmare?"

"Yes, it's a nightmare," Sylar rasped, his gaze wandering around the room. "Three years, completely alone…"

"Not years. Hours. All right?" Peter corrected. "Parkman trapped you here."

Peter could almost see the gears in Sylar's head turning.

"Parkman? That's impossible."

Okay, so Parkman had done something worse than locking Sylar in here. He had sped up time, so seconds felt like days, so Sylar's memories would become scrambled, even lost. Now Sylar was reeling. And he was no good to Peter like that. Peter took another step forward.

"What's the last thing you remember before coming here?"

Sylar blinked, glancing sideways at the floor.

"I remember…" he said faintly, with great effort. "Wanting my life to change. Thinking I was gonna spend all of eternity alone…"

"Exactly, and here you are," Peter said, suddenly realizing what Parkman had meant by "his worst nightmare." He went on. "Look, I've got Parkman's ability, I can take you out of here."

Sylar met his eyes, a strange mix of disbelief and hopefulness behind his.

"Why would you want to do that? The brother of the man I murdered coming to my aid?"

Peter swallowed. _That _ memory, at least, had been branded on Sylar's mind as well as his own. Should he even ask…?

"Because I need you to help me," Peter tried anyway. "Look, I could leave you here to rot. But I need you to save her." He hesitated, fighting back the pang in his chest. "My friend, Emma. In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

Sylar was already shaking his head, averting his gaze.

"You…You've got the wrong guy," he muttered roughly. "I'm not the savior kind. You should know that better than anybody."

Peter was thrown by that confession. But he pressed on.

"It's gonna happen," Peter said firmly. "And you're gonna save her."

Sylar gazed at him. He put the hammer on the desk. He lifted his head, and a bit of old, familiar challenge lit his gaze.

"Fine. You _really _think you can get us out of here? Let me see you try. Go ahead."

Peter, biting his tongue, closed the distance and put hand on the taller man's shoulder. He closed his eyes, and focused all the power of Parkman's stolen ability. His ears hummed. The power banged around against seemingly marble walls like a ping-pong ball. His eyes flew open.

Nothing.

Peter's gut clenched. Sylar briefly cocked an eyebrow.

"See? We're not going anywhere."

VVV

The mind-meld thing wasn't working. Peter tried it five more times. He eventually got frustrated and threw Sylar's hammer against the wall. Sylar, however, just watched him. Peter raked his hands through his hair.

"I don't _get it!"_

"I told you already—"Sylar started.

"I know you did. But you're wrong." Peter pointed at him. "You have to be."

"Right," Sylar chuckled. "I've been here for three years and I don't—"

"Three _hours, _okay?" Peter shot back. "_Hours_."

"So what, then?" Sylar wondered. "You got in here but you can't get out?"

Peter huffed, but his mind slowed down, focusing on Sylar's words.

"How did I get in?" He frowned. "I remember…I remember walking down an alley toward a main street, and there was this chain-link cage thing off to my right, and—"

"I…I think I know where that is," Sylar said, gathering himself, his voice gaining certainty. "I know where that is. That's around the side of this building. I'll show you."

He pushed past Peter and went to the door, then glanced back to make sure he was following. Peter trailed after him, wary.

"I remember that alley," Sylar went on, his voice echoing in the dark hallway. "I remember the graffiti—really red and orange. Couldn't read it, of course. I've sat and stood in front of it for whole days before, but I could never figure it out. Weird. But I _have_ started to figure out which graffiti went to which gang, once upon a time. In this section they have red and orange, and big balloon-like letters. More downtown the graffiti is blue and black, with narrower letters that are a little more legible but still unhelpful…"

Sylar kept talking, all the way down the hall, down the stairs, out into the sidewalk and down the street. Half of Peter's mind didn't care—he was straining to remember his first moments in this realm. But the other half followed Sylar's musings, which sounded like a winding road over empty hills. Sylar would make an observation, and chuckle, and fill in the space where Peter would have said something had he been having an actual conversation. He talked about nothing—and everything. All the details of this street, and the things he had learned in it. Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose. He kept forgetting that the man believed he'd been here for years. He hadn't talked to anyone in all that time. Peter sighed and sped up to look around the corner. He had no idea why Sylar thought he would care.

"This is it, isn't it?" Sylar said. Peter stared down the long alleyway. Sure enough, there was the chain-link cage. But the alley stretched on forever. He started down it.

"What?" Sylar said, not following. "I've been down that way. Lots of times. There's nothing down there except a fallen-down gas station, a line of trash cans, a green dumpster and an empty police station."

"Shut up," Peter shot back, not turning, accelerating his steps.

"Peter…?"

Sylar did not follow. Peter blazed straight ahead down the sunlit alley, the wind coming down and cutting through it. His footsteps tapped against the stone, and his breath was loud in his ears. Sylar did not follow.

Peter passed the cage, kept going, kept going…and there was the gas station on the right. He didn't remember that coming in. His eyes trailed to the left. There was the line of ten garbage cans, and the dumpster. His footsteps finally faltered when his attention fell upon the sign above the door of the police station. He stopped. He sighed. He glanced back. He could not see Sylar. If he was still there, the green dumpster was in the way. Ramming his hands in his pockets and grinding his teeth, Peter kicked a pop can all the way back down the alley. It clanked and bounced loudly in rebellion against the quiet.

When he reached the cage, he shot the can into the chain link as hard as he could. The fence rang.

"Peter."

Peter glanced up. Sylar arose from where he had been sitting on the sidewalk. His eyes were wide, his mouth bearing a small smile. For just an instant, he reminded Peter of that one time when Peter had bailed on Nathan to hang with his friends, only to guiltily return to find his brother waiting for him on the porch. The sudden image stopped Peter in his tracks and turned his stomach so hard that pain shot through every vein.

"You came back," Sylar said, as if trying to convince himself.

"Not by choice," Peter gritted, striding past without looking at him. "That's not the way in or out. Not anymore."

"Then what is the way?"

"_I don't know!"_ Peter stormed back, fighting sudden, shameful tears but still not facing Sylar.

"You're supposed to know—didn't you have an exit strategy?" Sylar pressed, following on his heels.

"Not really. I was trying to get to you before Parkman sealed you inside a brick tomb, okay?" Peter snarled.

"Okay."

Sylar's tone was so subdued Peter barely heard it.

"I'm gonna look around," Peter decided.

"All right," Sylar said, a bit louder this time.

"You don't have to follow me."

Peter felt Sylar shrug.

"Gee, let me check my busy schedule and see what I'm doing before…oh, lucky you. Just so happens I'm free this afternoon."

"Great. Wonderful," Peter rolled his eyes, heading back up the street, hearing Sylar's footsteps several paces behind.

VVV

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing_.

As far as Peter walked, with Sylar in his shadow, he could find no way out—no strange gateway or tunnel or secret passage that might be a way to slip out through the bars of Parkman's cage. Just an empty city, as if a plague had wiped out every living thing except the occasional tree.

Once in a while, Sylar would offer a distracting comment about a certain building, or how many books he had found in that basement, or how many branches were in this tree, if you counted just branches the size of your finger or bigger. Sarcasm painted his speech a lot of the time—and other times, it sounded merely like he was thinking out loud, completely out of practice concerning conversation. Peter snorted. If he ever had been good at it at all.

Massaging his forehead against the strain of studying the buildings in the fading light, Peter rounded another corner—and stopped.

There was the building that held Sylar's room.

"We went in a huge circle," Peter murmured.

"Yeah, funny how that works, isn't it?" Sylar agreed, coming up to stand beside him. He thought a moment. "Reminds me of that time you and I went hiking without Mom knowing, and we went down this path that looked like a walking trail, but it wound up only being a deer trail, and it led us all the way around—"

Peter whirled on him. Sylar stopped talking and gazed back at him. His half smile faded.

"What?"

Peter stared into those black eyes, so different, so foreign. His blood boiled.

"You didn't go on that hike with me," he stepped toward Sylar, locking gazes. "That was Nathan. _Nathan_. Remember him? The man you _murdered_? The man you enslaved inside your head?" Peter jammed his finger into Sylar's forehead. Sylar jerked back, alarmed.

"I…Yes, I…" He floundered, obviously trying to remember. "I…Nathan…" He murmured the name. It made Peter sick to hear it in his voice.

"Don't you _ever _do that again," Peter threatened. "Don't go dipping into Nathan's memories and pretend like they're yours. They couldn't possibly be. He was a good man, and you're a psycho killer. I hate you. Stop following me."

Sylar stared at him. But Peter's vision blurred so badly he could not read his expression. He stormed off into the twilight, and this time, the echoes of his footsteps were alone.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

_Yep, I spelled Peter's last name wrong. Had a feeling I was going to do that! Sorry. It'll be correct in following chapters if I use it, I promise. Thanks for the reviews, and keep them coming so I know how I'm doing! _

Part Three

And now it was worse. Sylar had been convinced that the most terrible thing that could ever happen to him was being forced to live in complete solitude, for all eternity, with no one to talk to him.

He had never considered the possibility of being utterly alone except for one person who _wouldn't _talk to him.

He loathed Peter for his silence. All day, Peter would wander the streets and buildings, poking through doors and into alleyways, fruitlessly searching for the exit that did not exist. Sylar knew Peter was aware of being followed—Sylar had never been incredibly sneaky. Besides which, the dead silence betrayed any living movement. And yet, Peter never said a word to him. He would just glance occasionally at Sylar, brief and aloof…

And judgment would come down on Sylar's head like a heavy gavel. Guilt and an anguish of shame made him shy away and fall back, his feet faltering on paths he knew by heart. Peter said he hated Sylar? Well, Sylar hated him in return.

And yet he could not stop following him, watching him from afar. The sight of a living, breathing human being with thoughts and feelings independent of his own was like a drug. And now, he dreaded the solitude like an addict dreads withdrawal. He hated Peter, yes. But he could not do without him. Not anymore.

Because, in truth, Sylar longed for that cold, righteous look, that slamming gavel, that strike of vengeance against him. Because there was something else he sought—something that called to mind a medieval monk flogging himself…something that needed to happen…that _should _happen…

Peter searched relentlessly. Of course he never found anything. What was there to find? But Sylar trailed after. Day after day after day. And though Sylar doubted Peter knew it or even cared, they did not exchange a single word for a month.

VVV

Peter's days were full. He was endlessly busy. He kept himself that way. He memorized, analyzed, scrutinized every piece of this dreamland. He pushed against cement walls with both hands, he rapped on doors, listening. He sat in the middle of the street and considered whether or not the sky held a fault line.

He knew Sylar was behind him, always. He trailed after him like a wraith. Peter looked back at him occasionally, just to show him that he couldn't hide. But the weird thing was that…he didn't _try _to hide. When Peter spotted him, Sylar would stop walking and turn his gaze aside. But he didn't duck behind a wall or trash can. He just stood there, until Peter continued his work.

He didn't talk to Sylar—he didn't want to. Nathan's screams, real or imagined, echoed in Peter's mind every time he looked at the skulking schizophrenic back there. He also knew that Sylar was not trying to help him find a way out. He was just curious—bored, probably. But for whatever reason, he was not searching for an exit. That fact locked Peter's jaw even tighter.

Peter knew a length of time passed like this, in this sullen silence. He had no idea how long—it was irrelevant. Three or four days, perhaps. He would find a way out soon enough, and they would get to Emma before anything had a chance to happen to her.

VVV

Sylar couldn't take it anymore. Living like this was intolerable. But he had to find a clever way to break the silence—a way to keep from blundering into "Nathan" territory again. That was difficult when he automatically drew information about Peter from Nathan's memories. At least, he _thought _they were Nathan's memories. He truly couldn't sort them out. He just assumed, after Peter's outburst, that anything friendly he remembered between himself and Peter could not possibly have happened to him, Sylar. Because Peter hated Sylar. He had always hated him.

So, no more Nathan. Sylar wouldn't say his name. And on that same note, he wouldn't talk about himself, either. But how to start to _talk _at all…?

He had to do something. One of them had to yield in some way. He had never really done that before, and he knew Peter wasn't about to. But he had determined to change, hadn't he? He would have to swallow his pride a bit, but he had to do it.

An idea hit him. He didn't delve into the reason he knew this about Peter, but he knew. And for the first time, he did not follow Peter on his daily ranging. Instead, he began digging through his massive library.

It took him almost all day. His neck cramped and his back hurt from lifting books and filing through papers, but he finally found it. He sighed in satisfaction, ran his hand through his hair, then took up his newfound prize and his backpack and headed out to find Peter.

VVV

He discovered him in his usual spot after a day's searching: perched on the edge of the roof, gazing out over the empty streets. Sylar took a breath, confident in his plan.

"Give it up, man. You can't go forever without talking to me." He shrugged. "I mean, you've gone a month. That's impressive." He sat down on one of the air-conditioning elements and saw Peter's ever-seeking eyes scan the windows. Sylar raised his voice, as if calling out over the edge. "There isn't anybody out there! And there never will be."

Peter turned and looked at him. He sighed, and spoke frankly.

"I'm not gonna spend the rest of my life here. Alone. With you."

"Oh!" Sylar barked out a laugh, but it faded into a dark look. "It isn't exactly heaven for me either." He bit the inside of his cheek against a sharper retort—at least Peter had _spoken—_and fished inside his backpack for that which he had searched so long for. "Here." He said, and tossed the small booklet to Peter. Peter caught it, and frowned at the cover.

"I know you like comics," Sylar told him. "Couldn't find Doc Savage or Flash—"

Peter tossed it over the side of the building. It fluttered and instantly disappeared. Sylar's chest clenched and he leaped to his feet.

"What is wrong with you?" he cried, stung. Peter stood up and glared at him.

"You need to stop messing around and focus."

"Oh. Focus, right," Sylar said caustically. "'cause we've gotta get out of here so we can go rescue…What's her name again?"

Peter's fist flashed. Blinding pain struck Sylar's mouth. He yelped, and jerked back. His hand flew to his lip. Warm liquid met his fingers. He was bleeding. Peter shook out his hurt hand.

"Emma," Peter said, voice quiet. "Her name's Emma."

Sylar was shaking. So this "Emma" was off limits, too? For crying out loud, did this kid react violently with any _mention _of someone he loved, dead, alive or otherwise? Sylar pressed close to Peter, exasperated with walking on eggshells around Peter's obtuseness, and hissed through his teeth.

"It's time to face reality, Peter. That girl is gone, and if she was meant to kill thousands, they're dead too. Everybody's dead except _us._"

Peter faced him, calm.

"The only thing that's _real _is _us._" He stepped around Sylar and left the roof. Sylar, pressing a hand to his mouth again, moved to follow. 

But as Peter's footsteps resounded ahead of him, Sylar's vision blurred and he slowed. How pitiful he was. How weak and stupid. He felt like a cat that had proudly brought a prize up to his master's doorstep only to have his master emerge with disgust, and toss the "filthy mouse" in the garbage.

_What? _ Said that voice, that voice that wasn't quite his. _What, you think you deserve better than that? You know why you're here. You know what you've done. Think on that for a moment. Remember what _you _have done to _him_._

Sylar wiped the blood away, cleared his throat, and dragged after Peter.

VVV

Peter's first thought after that initial flash of white rage was "Crap, I hope I didn't break my hand." Until he made himself remember—it was getting harder—that he wasn't really here. This wasn't his _real _hand. And as he convinced himself of that, the pain faded. And the words he spoke to Sylar were as much to convince himself as to convince Sylar. He couldn't get distracted. He could _not _lose sight of the truth. Sylar believed the lies he spoke—the lies about everyone being dead. Parkman _wanted _him to. But the jerk should know better than to get in his face and be sarcastic about his mission.

He trotted down the stairs, hearing his faithful "shadow" follow again. Only this time, the footsteps halted briefly, then caught up to him, so Sylar was right behind him. Peter sighed as they left the building and began heading down that alley with the cage.

"You think you've been here for years, but this is all just a dream," Peter said again.

"If this is all a dream, how are there books, huh?" Sylar countered, swiping the comic up from the pavement where Peter had thrown it. "How did Parkman make books?"

Peter didn't look at him. He didn't want him to see his flash of uncertainty.

"This is your dream," he ventured.

"How could I possibly know all the words to Pillars of the Earth or Catch 22?" Sylar shot back.

"I dunno—maybe you read it somewhere and it's in your subconscious," Peter replied, his voice rising.

"Yeah, well I didn't read _Ninth Wonders!"_ Sylar screamed, throwing the comic book.

"I did," Peter said flatly.

"So now we're in your head?" Sylar demanded.

"I don't know!" Peter spun around, exasperated. "I don't know how this all works!" He changed tracks, focusing on Sylar now. There was something in Sylar's expression now—something raw. Peter frowned. "Don't you wanna get out of here?"

"Yeah, of course!" Sylar said too quickly, then shied away, not looking at him, breathing hard. For a moment, Peter couldn't speak. It was impossible. It couldn't be—no sane person wouldn't…

"You don't, do you?" Peter realized. "You _don't _ want to get out of here."

Sylar turned back to him but would not meet his eyes. His head stayed half lowered, as if expecting another blow.

"Look, maybe I deserve all this aloneness—this Nothing," he shouted, voice broken. "Maybe I earned it."

Peter hesitated, letting that sink in.

"Yeah, maybe you have." He paused, wanting to bite his next thought back—but it was the truth. "But I can't do this on my own," he finally confessed, a pang of guilt darting from his chest down to his knuckles. "I need you to help me. Okay?"

Sylar finally looked at him, unsure, shattered—as if seeing Peter for the first time. Then he shrugged, and threw off his bag flippantly in surrender. He spread out hands to the sides.

"All right, Peter," he murmured. He came up to him and stood in front of him, meeting his eyes. "You want me to help you." He looks down, as if facing an internal struggle, and closed his eyes briefly. He nodded, his voice quieting. "I want to help."

Peter, watching him, nodded.

And then…

Something changed.

The two men turned as a shadow loomed over their heads.

"Where did _that _come from?" Sylar breathed, starting forward and leaving Peter behind…

To creep up to the base of a towering red brick wall. A wall that had _not _been there just seconds before.

Peter's eyes widened.

"That's the wall from Parkman's basement."

"What's it doing _here?_" Sylar wondered, lost. Peter filled his lungs with clear air.

"This is our way out."

"What?"

"Don't you get it? We have to break through!" Peter started forward. "Let's get something to…to hit it with."

"Like what?" Sylar pressed his hand against the solid wall.

"You can't tell me that in three years you haven't found a single sledgehammer in this whole God-forsaken place."

Sylar turned to him, and arched an eyebrow.

"There are two."

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

The steady rhythm of the hammer echoed through the whole city. Yes, the _hammer_. Singular. Because Sylar had stopped working hours ago.

"It's not even making a dent," Sylar commented from behind Peter. "Look. You're hitting it with all your force and nothing is happening."

"Maybe it would," Peter grunted, sending the hammer crashing down on the same place again. "If you _helped _like you _said you were going to_."

Sylar came up beside him and folded his arms over his chest. He gave him a look.

"I did. Same thing. And it's _midnight _now."

"I told you—" _Clang. Clang. _"Do _not _tell me what time you think it is."

"I'm not making it up," Sylar lifted his wrist. "I'm wearing three watches—plus, I _am _a watch. I _know _

what time it is."

"That's not helpful," Peter answered. He built momentum in his arms. He swung harder, fiercer.

The repeated impacts rattled his bones. It was a lie. No time was passing. None. And if he could

just crack this thing…if Sylar would just pick up that stupid hammer and—

"I'd like to _be _helpful. I've tried already—we both have. But _this_ obviously isn't working, and I have a bad shoulder," Sylar said, leaning back on the wall and folding his arms. "You tackled me once, hard, and I landed wrong on the ground. I think you were always stronger, I'll admit that—I always said, Pete, that you're the one of the two of us who would rather get his hands dirty."

Peter threw the hammer down and hit him. Hard. First with his right fist, then with his left, straight in the face. The blows landed solidly, shocking Sylar back against the wall.

"That is _Nathan!"_ Peter roared, punching him again, in the chest, then in the gut. Sylar doubled over, eyes wide. Peter struck his jaw with his right hand. Blood flew. The wind picked up and whipped through their hair and clothes as Sylar toppled to his knees, choking. Peter, his vision blurring scarlet, bent over him and struck him again and again, in the back of the neck, head and shoulders. Peter hit harder. Sylar broke beneath him like thin ice on a pond. Peter's knuckles grew slick with blood.

Sylar collapsed, shielding his face with his shaking hands. Peter stopped, his breathing ragged. Sylar drew in three labored breaths, trying to rise onto his elbow. Blood streamed from his nose and lips. Peter was breathing so hard it nearly sent his system into a panic. He took two steps back. Sylar's blood dripped from his nose onto the street.

He floundered on the sand of the cement for a moment and coughed, weakly spitting out blood. A strangled sound escaped him, and he finally hauled himself to his feet and stumbled into the darkness. Peter spun around, raking both sore hands through his hair, his pulse banging erratically against his temples. He leaned his hot forehead against the bricks as his throat tried to close. He listened, but Sylar's footsteps had vanished.

VVV

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

Peter kept working, his mind blank. He struck the same spot, over and over, countless times. The night deepened.

_Clang. Clang. Clang_.

He had no idea how long he hammered before he realized that the wind had changed.

He stopped. Silence fell. He lowered the hammer and turned around. Beyond the glow of the small lamp he had brought out to work by, the darkness loomed like a shroud.

And the wind spun around like a fighter and rushed through his clothes, chilling his sweaty body and tightening his muscles. Peter put the hammer down.

_The wind never changed before. Why would it now?_

His eyes searched the darkness again. A twinge ran through his right hand. He winced, reflexively holding it against his chest. The fingers of his left hand brushed the crusted blood on his right. He froze.

He had forgotten himself. Despite his constant mantra of "this isn't real—this is a dream"…

He had forgotten that this wasn't his house.

The wind spun and whirled, and the sky seemed to lower like a tumbling ceiling.

"Oh, no." Peter scooped the lamp up and hurried into the darkness. His footsteps pounded on the road, but the wind nearly drowned them out. "Sylar? Sylar!" he called. The wind moaned in reply, but its voice was empty. He picked up his pace, the lamplight bouncing as he swung around the corner of Sylar's building. He knocked the door aside, raced up the stairs and burst into Sylar's room.

_Tick, tick, tick. _

Peter froze on the threshold, the light casting eerie shadows.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

He swallowed hard. The clocks sounded ominous. Even malignant.

"Sylar!" He raised his voice further. The wind whistled against the windows. "_Sylar!"_

No one answered. Peter left the room and continued up, up, to the roof. His breathing tightened as his mind flew. Sylar wasn't… He _couldn't…_

Why not?

"Crap, no," Peter gritted, speeding up. He knocked the door to the roof out of the way, barreling out into the cold, rushing air again. He jerked to a stop.

Sylar stood where Peter so often sat—right on the edge of the roof, facing out. His arms hung limp at his sides. His head was tilted down, as if he was studying the street below. He was not wearing his coat.

"Hey, man, what are you doing?" Peter asked, panting.

"This is the way it goes, isn't it? This is the way it should be—he said so." Sylar's words came in a rush, quiet and trembling.

"What are you talking about?" Peter risked a few steps forward. "Get down from there."

"Prophecies have a way of making themselves come true," Sylar went on, as if he hadn't heard. "Even if you try to change them—your trying might make them happen. This is inevitable. I can't fight it."

All the air in Peter's lungs suddenly left him. Flashes of his last seconds with Nathan assaulted him, fueled by the nearly identical rooftop and the rushing wind—

"Get down," Peter commanded, stepping forward and setting the lamp down on the air conditioning unit. "This is stupid. You're not using your brain." He came up beside Sylar and looked up at him. Peter went still.

Sylar's face was still bloody, and his left cheekbone was bruised and swollen. And tears ran down, making trails in the dry blood. Peter went pale and he felt sick. His knuckles hurt.

"I couldn't help it," Sylar rasped thickly. "Even the worst of his memories…are pleasanter to think of than my best."

"Sylar, what do you plan to do up here, huh?" Peter demanded. "This is a dream. You're not—"

"I can bleed." Sylar gave a brief, reflexive smile to the nothing in front of him, and tilted his head back a little. "I feel pain. So it stands to reason I'd feel a lot if I hit the pavement down there, right?"

"Why the heck would you want to do that?" Peter's heartbeat accelerated. Sylar looked down at the empty road again.

"Because that's right. Because I need to. I should," he said evenly, quietly.

"You want to kill yourself?" Peter cried. Sylar said nothing. He blinked, and two tears rolled down.

"Push me, Peter."

Peter did a double take. His chest clenched.

"What?" he said, voice low.

"I know you want to. You were trying to, just a few minutes ago. And you should. That'll put an end to me, and you'll wake up out of here and go save Emma." Sylar swayed forward dangerously. Peter fought against grabbing him.

"I can't save Emma without you, remember?" he said instead.

"Me?" Sylar smirked and shook his head. "I'm no good to you or anybody. You know that. I said I'd help you. This is how I'm helping. Hurry up."

Peter shook his head.

"I'm not going to push you."

"_Why not?" _Sylar roared, finally turning to him. Peter took a step back.

"You know it's right, you know it should be done!" Sylar cried, voice shattered, brow twisting, the wind escalating to a gust. "I don't resent you for this," he pointed at his face. "I deserve it. And the most fitting punishment for me is for you to end me, right now. Do it, Peter—right now, you do it!"

"No!" Peter shouted. "I've done some stuff in my life too that I'm ashamed of. I regretted them. Still do. And yeah, I could have done something stupid afterward like blow my brains out, but I _didn't_. Instead, I tried my hardest to get it right the next time."

"That's because," Sylar said rockily, half looking at him. "You've never done what I've done. Not even close. Besides which…you probably had somebody to talk you back from the edge."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Peter countered. Sylar stared at him. The wind batted at their hair and shirt collars. Peter took a breath, and one step closer.

"Jumping off a building is a coward's way to go—even worse is making _me _do it. I know you're not a coward, Sylar, whatever else you are. Yeah, you can wallow in guilt and self-pity if you want to, but that isn't going to _help _the situation."

"Why not? It'll set you free and the world will be rid of me," Sylar pointed out.

"Really?" Peter shook his head. "Our minds are linked—How do you know that when your brain busts on that cement down there that I won't be comatose the rest of my life?"

Sylar's eyes flashed. Thank God—Peter must be getting through. Sylar turned back, gazing at the street again.

"I don't know," Sylar murmured. He swallowed. "But that reason makes enough sense for you to want me alive, I suppose." He swayed forward again. Peter sighed tightly.

"I shouldn't have done that, okay?" he confessed.

"What?"

Peter took a deep breath.

"I shouldn't have hit you."

"It was right," Sylar said faintly.

"No, it wasn't. Not for me."

Sylar looked at him. Peter gave him a brief, crooked smile.

"Do unto others, right?"

Sylar's eyebrows twitched in confusion, then his expression cleared. He swallowed and took a gasping breath. Peter grasped his wrist.

The wind stopped.

"Now get down from there," Peter said.

Sylar shuddered. Slowly, his left leg moved, and his foot slid backward. His balance tipped, and he thudded to his feet onto the surface of the roof. Sylar's breaths now came in deep, short gasps, his eyes bright.

"I'm so sorry, Peter," he managed. "I'm sorry about Nathan."

Peter fought back his prickle of anger, grabbed Sylar's shoulder and steered him toward the door.

"Just don't do that again."

VVV

Sylar let himself be pulled back inside. He had no strength anymore. In fact, he almost felt as if he was standing outside himself, watching. But Peter's hand never left his shoulder as they made their way back down the stairs, back to Sylar's room of clocks and books. Peter guided him to a chair and he collapsed into it, his shoulders hunching. He was suddenly back in his body, feeling every nuance of pain that ran through his head and shoulders and chest. His lower lip trembled and his breathing hurt him.

Peter moved away and flicked on two desk lamps and a standing light.

"Let's eat something, okay?" Peter said. "Looks like you've got some cans of stuff around, and…a microwave. Awesome. Oh, and hey, what's…? Great, great." Peter bent down and fetched a white first-aid kit out from under the desk. He snapped open the lid, scanned the contents and came back to Sylar with it. "Looks like it's complete. The antiseptic will sting, but make sure you get that cut by your eye or you'll have a scar." He set the box in Sylar's lap.

"I thought you said this was a dream…" Sylar mumbled. Peter shrugged.

"Okay, your dream face will have a scar. You still have to look at yourself." Peter went back to rummaging through the cans. Unsteady, Sylar fished out the antiseptic wipes, tore them out of their packages and began dabbing his nose mouth and cheekbone. He winced as the sting traveled all across his face and up behind his left eye, but he didn't make a noise. He felt how swollen his cheekbone and lower lip were, and he couldn't breathe out of his nose. He was surprised he could talk.

"Okay," Peter stood back and put his hands on his hips as he assessed the shelf where he had arranged four cans. "Potato soup, tomato, vegetable or clam chowder."

"You're asking me?" Sylar asked hoarsely.

"Yeah."

"I can't…Chewing isn't…" Sylar muttered, reaching up with his fingertips and feeling the inside of his lip where a big cut ran.

"Right. Okay. So that eliminates the potato and the vegetable." He looked at him. "Tomato?"

Sylar just looked at him, bewildered.

"I…yes?"

"Awesome. What do you use for a can opener around here?"

"It's in the top left hand drawer," Sylar murmured, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed the wipe to his cheekbone. He heard Peter clanking around in the drawer, then quickly slicing the lid off the can.

"Um…what do you…" Peter straightened, the can in one hand.

"By the microwave," Sylar said, tossing the wipe aside and reaching for another.

"Aha." Dishware clattered as Peter dumped the soup in a microwave dish, put on the lid and stuck the cold soup in to cook. The little oven hummed as it got to work. Sylar watched Peter as he threw the can away, then started searching for something else.

"Desk. Second right hand drawer," Sylar said. Peter bent and jerked that drawer open, then lifted his eyes and gave him a weird look.

"How did you…?"

Sylar smirked.

"Lucky guess."

Peter eyed him, then pulled out two plastic bowls and two plastic spoons. In a few minutes, the microwave beeped. Peter pulled out the soup, poured it into the bowls, and walked up to Sylar carrying one.

"Here. Watch out—it's hot in this plastic."

Sylar, stunned, barely managed to take it from him without spilling. He closed the first aid box and set the soup down on that, then accepted the spoon.

"That heat will probably hurt like crazy on your lip, so I'd wait a sec," Peter advised, returning to the desk and seating himself behind his own bowl. Peter immediately started to eat, and Sylar sensed the conversation was over. Sylar's whole head thudded, but the soup smelled good.

Peter slurped as he spooned his soup. Then, he stood up, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded pamphlet. Sylar's eyes flashed, but Peter didn't look up. Peter unfolded it, set it down on the desk beside him and began flipping through it as he ate. Sylar blinked.

It was that comic he had found—_Ninth Wonders_. Peter must have picked it up when Sylar had gone looking for the sledgehammers.

Peter didn't look up again during his meal. Gingerly, Sylar took a spoonful of soup and eased it into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. Peter was right—it hurt like mad. But once it got past his cut, it warmed him down to his bones, and the deathly chill he had felt all night was banished.

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks so much for the reviews! I LOVE them! Keep 'em coming!_

Part Five

Peter's routine changed the next day. Instead of searching through the city, Peter concentrated his effort in one three-by-three spot on that wall. He arose from the place where he had dozed in the corner, leaving Sylar asleep in his chair, descended into the morning light and picked up a hammer.

No birds sang. No sound at all greeted the morning except…

_Thud. Thud. Thud. _

Sylar limped out later in the day, hands in the pockets of his coat. He stood for a long time, saying nothing, watching Peter work. Peter glanced at him once. Sylar's left eye was swollen almost shut, and his lip was split. But he nodded at Peter. Peter turned back to his work.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

And in rhythm with his strikes, Peter repeated the same words to himself:

_This isn't real. It's all a dream. This isn't real. It's all a dream. _

And the more he did that, the less tired he felt. He smirked to himself as the hammer grew lighter in his hand, and his blows gained power. If he kept himself in the right frame of mind, he shouldn't get any more tired doing this than he would if he was punching a button on a video game. He memorized the bricks he struck, waiting for the first sliver to break away.

Absently, he realized Sylar had meandered away from the alley. He shot a look over his shoulder, just in time to catch a glimpse of Sylar's back, then returned to his hammering.

Breaking through this obstacle wasn't going to be easy, of course—he expected this to take a day or so at least. After all, Parkman was a master, and he wanted Sylar to be imprisoned here _forever_. This was not supposed to be a temporary deal, easily loop-holed. But Peter would get through. He had to. He knew it had only been a few minutes, in reality, since he'd come into this nightmare. Maybe. But there wasn't any time to waste. His prophetic dream had felt so imminent, so pressing—it had scared him out of sleep. Emma was waiting on the other side of this blasted wall. She was counting on him.

Sylar came back to the alley. Peter heard his footsteps between hammers. Peter paused and looked over at him.

"Where did you go?" he questioned.

"The other side of the wall," Sylar replied, studying the tall brick structure in front of them.

"Why?"

Sylar shrugged.

"Well, I just thought it would have been cool if the way out was on the other side and we just had to go around."

"That doesn't make sense," Peter shook his head.

"And hammering through a brick wall to get to an empty alley does?" Sylar countered.

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Okay, so how do you know I didn't find the way out?" Sylar wanted to know. Peter let the hammer fall again.

"Because you wouldn't still be here."

Peter sensed Sylar stand there for a bit longer, then depart again. He came back about a hundred hammer strokes later. Peter shot him a look. Sylar didn't lift his head—he just set two bottles of water down by the wall. Then he turned and left again before Peter could make up his mind about whether or not he should say something. Deciding it was better that he stayed quiet, Peter hefted his hammer and started again.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Some time later—or none, of course—Sylar slowly returned. Peter cast him a brief look as Sylar winced, and settled himself against the wall of the building with a big, worn book in his hand. Peter kept swinging, expending almost no effort. He hit the wall thirty more times before he paused, eyes rolling up to the sky.

"Why don't you read that?"

Sylar raised his head.

"What?"

"Why don't you read that?" Peter repeated. Sylar raised his eyebrows.

"I am."

"Out loud," Peter swung the hammer again.

"You're…hammering," Sylar pointed out.

"So what? My brain is bored." Peter answered. "Go ahead."

"Okay…" Sylar cleared his throat, and pages flipped. "The Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follett."

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

"'The small boys came early to the hanging,'" Sylar began reading, timing his words between Peter's hammers. "'It was still dark when the first three or four of them sidled out of the hovels, quiet as cats in their felt boots. A thin layer of fresh snow covered the little town like a new coat of paint, and theirs were the first footprints to blemish its perfect surface.'"

Peter listened, finding the story engaging enough as Sylar read along, until it began spiraling into—

"Woah, stop."

He quit hammering, and Sylar, startled, looked up.

"What?"

"That's just…too much."

"What, the hanging?"

"_Yes, _the hanging. I don't need to hear that."

"You get squeamish about a _hanging?" _ Sylar frowned, shutting the book but keeping his finger in the spot.

"No, I just don't _enjoy_ hearing about it, okay?" Peter slung the hammer to the other hand. "Is the rest of the book like that?"

"Like what?" Sylar looked at him sideways.

"Morbid, gross, violent?"

Sylar kept frowning for a long moment, then blinked.

"No. I mean, it's a bit…rough, but…"

"Okay, just skip that hanging part. I know it happens."

Sylar chuckled, but flipped a page or two forward.

"All right. We'll get past that part. Okay, no blood here. Ready?"

_Thud. Thud. _

"Yeah. Go ahead."

VVV

During the dark hours, Peter would sit on the roof and gazed out over the city. He did not feel weariness in this illusory body of his, but his mind did need a break. He knew that, and allowed it. But during the day he struck hard at that wall, over and over, certain each time he did that he was about to see a brick crumble.

Sylar limped out to the Wall every day at about noon, stop about twenty feet behind him and say:

"Hey. You should eat."

"I don't need to," Peter would reply. "You know that."

"Any progress today?" Sylar would ask next. Peter would pause, examine the bricks more closely, then shake his head.

"No. Not yet."

Sylar would then depart, Peter would keep working, and "sameness" would resume. A bit later, Sylar would return, packing Pillars of the Earth and a couple bottled waters. He would seat himself, and read out loud to Peter, trying to time his words between the deafening thuds. Sometimes he was successful. Others, the thuds blurred whole sentences, but Peter did not ask for clarification. Sylar's speech still sounded a little thick, from the cut in his mouth and the blood in his sinuses, but he persisted.

As daylight faded, Peter would stop hammering and lean against the wall, pressing his fingertips to the bricks to search for any cracks. Sylar kept reading. Then, Peter would go over, about ten feet away from Sylar, sit down and say:

"Hey, toss me a water."

The _first_ time he did this, Sylar's shock was unmasked. He fumbled around and finally chucked one over to him. Peter took the cap off and drank, and Sylar just watched him.

"Keep reading if you wanna," Peter said.

"Oh," Sylar blinked. "Yeah." He cleared his throat, and began where he had been.

This continued. At twilight every day, Peter would stop, and go drink a water while Sylar kept reading. Sometimes Peter listened. Others, he just contemplated the color of the sky. When he finished his bottle, he would stand up, and return to where his hammer was leaning against the wall.

Each time, as his hand closed around the handle, a wild, terrible thought occurred to him.

What if Sylar was right? What if, if Sylar died in this world, Peter would be set free?

What if Peter were to avenge Nathan, instead of trying to help his killer?

Each time, Peter would squeeze his eyes shut, heft the hammer and strike the wall really hard. And Sylar would flinch, like a child who has been hit often, get up, and retreat wordlessly into the building.

They finished Pillars of the Earth. The cut in Sylar's mouth healed, but the deep bruise around his eye remained. Peter wondered if Sylar would just pester him now that the book was done, but when he came out the next time, he bore another book. He eased himself down by the wall, accompanied by his usual two water bottles, and opened the cover.

"At a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to remember, there lived a little while ago one of those gentlemen who are wont to keep a lance in the rack, an old buckler, a lean horse and a swift greyhound…"

Peter smirked, switched the hammer to the other side and swung left-handed.

And at the end of that day, he settled down some distance from Sylar, drank a bottle of water and listened as he read.

Days later and halfway through that book, Peter decided he was tired of looking at those same six bricks. So he moved over three feet and eyed six different bricks.

"You're going _down_," he muttered at them, and struck hard. Sylar came and started reading again. It was that day that Peter adopted the custom of switching dominant swinging hands with each new chapter. Gave life a little variety.

But as that book drew to a close, Peter felt his nerves begin to fray. And with the last line of the story—an incredibly frustrating ending—he slammed the hammer down and snapped the handle in half. The hammer head went spinning off and splinters flew into Peter's face.

Sylar leaped to his feet.

"Are you okay?"

Peter swore, loudly, and slammed his fist straight into the bricks. Pain now blasted through his whole arm.

"Woah, hey, stop," Sylar threw the book down and yanked Peter away from the wall.

"It's not real, it isn't real," Peter panted, trying to blink through the splinters in his eyes. Then he screamed and pressed his left hand over his face.

"Yeah, well, you probably just clocked your own cranium. Still hurts." Sylar said, but his voice didn't mock. He took hold of Peter's shoulders and hauled him sideways. Peter yelped, digging his fingers into his eyes.

"Don't rub them unless you want to go blind," Sylar reprimanded, knocking his hand away. He let him go briefly to grab a water bottle. "Hold out your good hand."

"What—"

"Do it." Sylar's voice was like iron. Peter, eyes squeezed shut, unbearable pain shooting through them, stretched out his left hand.

"Wash your eyes out," Sylar said. Cold water shocked Peter's palm, but he hurriedly splashed it up in his face. The moisture knocked up against his lids, but little got in.

"You have to open your eyes," Sylar told him. "Come on. Pry them open."

Peter swore again, tears now spilling down his face.

"Good, let your eyes water, and wash them out, man!" Sylar's voice thundered as he poured more water into his hand. Peter splashed the water up again, and this time quite a bit got in his eyes. Sylar poured more water, and Peter did it again.

"Man, what a stupid thing to do," Sylar muttered. "Bust your fist on that wall—you probably broke two bones. Do you always just punch things? Is that your first reaction?"

"It isn't real," Peter mumbled.

"Ha. Tell that to your hand."

Peter let his eyes weep as he washed the pieces of wood out—but he was sure he had gone blind. That thought choked his throat. He couldn't feel his right hand or wrist.

"Keep doing that," Sylar ordered. "Even after you think they're clear. I'll be right back."

"Where are you—" Peter tried, his whole face dripping, blinking wildly.

"Kneel down and don't fall over," Sylar said instead, and left. Peter swore again as he let his weakened legs go slack and he fell to his knees. He reached up and drew a large, loosened splinter out of the corner of his left eye, then kept blinking, water running down his cheeks, nose and chin.

Sylar's footsteps returned, much more rapidly than before.

"Hold out your hand," he said. Peter did. Sylar poured water in it, and Peter splashed it in his face again.

"You used up all my water," Sylar sighed.

"_Your _water?" Peter sputtered.

"My nightmare, my water." Sylar grabbed Peter's broken hand.

"_OW!"_

"Yep, broken. I can feel it. But nothing's out of place." He let go, and tape sang as he stretched it out. Peter lifted his head, and spotted Sylar's blurry form.

"I can tape my own hand—"

"No you can't. Shut up." Sylar pressed a wooden splint to the back of Peter's hand and swiftly began wrapping it. Peter shook his head, his wet hair hitting his face. He swore again.

"Just give me a sec," Sylar said. "And I'll be able to see if you got the splinters out."

"You're hurting my freaking hand," Peter gritted.

"No, _you _hurt your freaking hand," Sylar replied patiently. "I'm just doing damage control."

He wrapped the hand expertly—as well as Peter would have done it—and then forced Peter's head up, peering into his right eye and then his left with a pen light.

"For crying out—" Peter tried to flinch away, but Sylar was too quick.

"Looks good. I mean, not _good_, but the splinters are gone." He reached down toward what was apparently a first aid kit, brought out a tube of something, unscrewed it, then forced Peter's right eye open and squirted some sort of balm in his eye.

"Ouch!"

"You are such a baby," Sylar muttered, pressing a round pad up against Peter's right eye. "Close your eye and hold that there." He did the same thing with Peter's left eye, then wrapped tape around his head to hold the pads in place, effectively blindfolding him.

Peter had an idea of what Sylar had put in his eyes—a disinfectant and a painkiller specifically designed for eye injuries—because the pain subsided. However, he could not see a thing.

"Okay, sit back against the bane of our existence, here," Sylar said, pushing Peter's shoulder so that he thudded onto his butt and leaned against the Wall. Sylar then pressed two pills into Peter's left hand.

"What's this?"

"Cyanide," Sylar shot back. "It's Aspirin. Put them in your mouth. Go on."

Peter winced, but did so, and then Sylar handed him the water bottle. Peter quickly took a drink before the Aspirin had a chance to dissolve. He heard Sylar sigh as he sat down a pace away. Peter shivered, feeling sick and wan.

"How did you know how to do that?" he muttered.

"Aren't books amazing?" Sylar remarked. "You can learn whatever you want if you just pick one up. Speaking of which, I brought another one because I knew we'd be finishing today."

_This isn't real. This isn't real_. Peter repeated to himself, trying to focus on both his eyes and his hand. But his stomach turned and he swallowed, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Shall I read?" Sylar asked, from somewhere in the darkness.

_Anything for a distraction…_

"Yeah. Shoot."

"Muse, tell me of the man of many wiles,

The man who wandered many paths of exile

After he sacked Troy's sacred citadel.

He saw the cities—mapped the minds—of many;

And on the sea, his spirit suffered every

Adversity—to keep his life intact,

To bring his comrades back…"

They spent the rest of the day reading. Then, with Peter's hand on his shoulder, Sylar guided him back up to the room of books and clocks, and Peter fell asleep in the chair by the window. The next day, they did not leave the room. Sylar just read to him there, from someplace that sounded like behind the desk.

Peter was furious. He could not believe what he had done to himself, or why he couldn't will himself to heal, when this wasn't reality. But it _felt _like reality. He realized then that he would have made a really lousy Neo—the Matrix would have fallen on its face. But he couldn't see. His eyes hurt him, and he knew, as a medical person, that he _could not _take those bandages off yet. Oh, and his hand killed him. He would not be punching anything anymore, not even Sylar.

The days progressed this way, with the endless reading. But sometimes Sylar would vanish for long periods of time, only to return in a brisk mood to begin reading again. When Peter asked what he was doing out there, he would only reply with:

"Looking."

And then return to the book. Which they finished fairly quickly, and started another.

"This is the forest primeval. The murmuring

Pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green,

Indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and

Prophetic…"

When that book was done, Peter was about to lose his mind. He had already memorized the entirety of the little room, and had taken to impatiently pacing the length and breadth of it during Sylar's reading. So—because Sylar feared that Peter may start to use his belongings as punching bags for his other hand—to begin the next book, they went outside, and Sylar sat on a bench while Peter walked blindly up and down the center of the huge street.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…"

Peter's eyes began to feel better. He could move them beneath their lids without a twinge. Just a bit longer…

To start the next book, he decided they would return to the Wall, and sit where they had before. The Wall weighed on Peter's mind constantly. He couldn't stand to let it sit there, mocking his blindness like this.

_This isn't real. Not real. I'll show you, you stupid wall. Just wait._

And this time, without the pain in his eyes, he felt his hand growing stronger faster than it should have. Sometimes, when he really concentrated, he could almost sense the bones coming together.

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world…"

Peter did not keep track of time—he commanded Sylar not to tell him—but he guessed it was about a week—perhaps two?—and at last he could remove the bandage from his eyes…

And see that his was not the only face that had completely healed.

Sylar arched an eyebrow at him, but it was not an unfriendly expression.

"Well, well, Hawkeye," he said, closing the book and setting it aside. "How does everything look?"

Peter stood up. He tossed down the bandage, then ripped off the tape binding his hand to the splint. He threw that down too, and flexed his fingers and wrist.

"It feels awesome." He glanced up at the Wall that towered over their heads. "But I broke my favorite hammer."

"Well, hey, you're in luck." Sylar got up and pointed to the corner. "Look. I found quite a few more."

Peter glanced at him.

"Where?"

Sylar shrugged.

"Everywhere, once I was looking."

Peter gave him a half smile.

"Great. Hand me one."

TO BE CONTINUED

_A/N: Here is a fun little game, for you avid readers: see if you can name to me the books they read, and tell me why I chose them—they are strategic, symbolizing some aspect of either Sylar or Peter…or even Nathan. Have fun guessing! ;) I will post my reasons at the end of the fic!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I put some of my literary reason for the books in this chapter, but I will still explain further at the very end. I love your reviews! They mean the world to me! Keep them up!_

Part Six

Sylar threw the book on the floor and covered his eyes with his hand. He wanted to laugh at his disconcertion, but the sound choked in his throat. He shook his head, moving his hand down to press against his mouth as he leaned back in the arm chair and gazed blankly out the window.

In part, he marveled at the change. At one time, he would have found these books intriguing and even humorous—he would have smirked at the main characters when they were confronted with trials and their dreams were dashed. "That's what happens. Get over it," he would have said. Now…

Now he was haunted by the happy endings that never came.

How had he possibly picked books that _all _had endings that stuck in his gut like a knife and twisted, leaving his mind reeling, unable to cope with the slap in the face each author delivered?

Moby Dick made him furious. He had never read it—it must have been in Peter's memory. At first, Sylar fully understood Captain Ahab, and his driving obsession. But as he watched him spiral into madness, Sylar felt himself distancing from the captain, watching in numb, growing horror as Ahab destroyed himself, his entire crew and his ship for the sake of…a whale. "How mindless," he realized. "How useless!" And on a very deep, unmoving level, it scared him.

A Tale of Two Cities was also Peter's memory, and it was no better. When reading that, Sylar had stepped into the shoes of brilliant, but melancholy, alcoholic lawyer Sydney Carton, and watched him fall in love with the beautiful golden-haired young lady who brought light and hope into his darkness. And then the hope that Sylar had not known he held for Carton was drawn out of him like blood when the golden-haired lady married another, and Carton went to the guillotine. Sylar had hidden his dismay well from Peter. But while the hanging in Pillars of the Earth did not bother him, the lonely gallows of Sydney Carton haunted Sylar's twilight hours.

The Odessy, of course, was different. Odysseus made it home, and slew all of the greedy suitors that had converged like wolves on his beloved. But Sylar felt like a bystander in that story—_that_ ending reminded him more of Peter than anyone else. And what about Odysseus' fellow Greeks? What of Achilles, or Patrocles or Ajax, or all of Odysseus' comrades? None of them made it. Odysseus had lost them all.

But the book he had flung on the floor had a beautiful name. It was written by a man named Longfellow, and he believed he had read it in high school. It was called Evangeline. And at various times during his reading it to Peter, Sylar had wanted to scream at the characters in incredulity.

Evangeline and her true love, betrothed in their youth, were separated by a calamity. And although they tried for the rest of their lives to find each other, they never could—not until the _very end_. The most maddening thing for Sylar was that they sometimes came _so close_—they even passed each other on a river at night. But neither of them realized the proximity of the one they loved until it was too late. They could never align their lives, their thinking, to get to the same place at the same time. And it was the few lines from that book that stuck under Sylar's heart and burned across his lips, wanting to punch that Wall himself.

_Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his_

_ Spirit exhausted_

_ Seemed to be sinking down through infinite_

_ Depths in the darkness,_

_ Darkness of slumber and death, forever_

_ Sinking and sinking._

_ Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied_

_ Reverberations,_

_ Heard he that cry of pain, and through the _

_ Hush that succeeded_

_ Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender_

_ And saint-like,_

_ "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence…_

_Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline,_

_ Kneeling beside him,_

_ Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom._

_ Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly_

_ Sank into darkness,_

_ As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of_

_ Wind at a casement…_

Sylar swore, got up, let the book stay on the floor, and left the room full of ticking clocks.

VVV

Sylar ducked his head and watched his feet as he left the building, heading toward the ever-present sounds of _thud, thud, thud_. She rounded a corner and glanced up at Peter's back. He was hammering just as steadily as he had been for the past month since his eyes and hand had healed. Sylar came up and stood behind him, and leaned forward slightly.

"Hey," he called. "You should eat."

Peter kicked back and delivered a shattering blow to the wall.

"Don't need to eat. Don't need to sleep. Don't need anything." He paused, and reached up with his left hand to press his thumb against the brick.

"Any progress today?" Sylar asked. Peter sighed.

"No." He leaned his hand against the Wall. "It's just like yesterday. And the day before that…"

Sylar stepped forward and pressed against the Wall with both hands.

"And…the day before that."

Peter withdrew a little as Sylar turned around and leaned back against the wall.

"It's been…" Peter glanced down at his watch. "I don't even _know _how long it's been."

Sylar lifted an eyebrow and winced, and took a breath. Peter held up a hand.

"Don't tell me how long it's been."

Sylar looked at him straight as Peter set the hammer down and strode over to his water bottles.

"I don't know how much longer you can keep this up, Peter."

"As long as it takes," Peter stated, his expression determined and calm. Memory flashed across Sylar's vision. He glanced down and his eyes unfocused.

"I know that look." His brow furrowed as he tried to focus. "You have it all the time."

"What look?" Peter wondered, taking a swig. Sylar thought harder.

"Like when Howie Caplan beat you at the fifty yard dash, and you and I ran to school every morning and kept training and kept it up, right?"

Peter instantly stopped drinking and marched straight up to him, cornering him up against the Wall. Panic and guilt flashed through Sylar's chest as he suddenly realized what he had said. Peter pinned him in place with the steel in his eyes.

"That's Nathan's memory, that's not yours," Peter's eyes flashed. "I told you…to _stop _doing that. You're not him. You're nothing like him."

Sylar went cold.

"So you've told me," he murmured. He slid around Peter and strode away from him. But his feet slowed, and he turned back. Peter picked up the hammer more fiercely. Sylar's gut tightened, as it did each time Peter hefted that tool.

"Look, Peter," Sylar tried, voice weak. "I know that I've said it before, but…"

Peter swung, and the metal clanged against the brick. Sylar gestured helplessly.

"I'm sorry."

The hammer fell again. Sylar kept trying, pain in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry that I…killed him, I'm sorry that I took him from you, I—"

"Sorry!" Peter whirled. Sylar ducked his head away. Peter jabbed the hammer at him.

"You keep saying that! 'I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_.'"

Sylar, his breathing tightening, looked down. Peter's voice rose to a rough shout.

"That's _not_ gonna bring my brother back! It doesn't change _anything!"_

And then something inside Sylar snapped.

"You're right!" Sylar exploded, screaming straight at Peter, savagery flashing through him. "Nothing changes! We're stuck here forever—you and me!" He backed away, eyes darting around, his desperation rising. Pulse banging in his ears, he spun around snatched up a hammer leaning against the metal cage and turned on Peter. "I can't take it anymore."

Peter braced himself, holding the hammer in both hands, and lifted his chin.

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna end this," Sylar snarled. For just an instant, his and Peter's eyes locked.

Then, he lunged past Peter, over his head, and brought the hammer crashing down on the bricks. Peter rocked back on his heels, eyes widening. Sylar hammered the wall several more times, reveling in the feeling of the vibration in his bones. He paused, then glanced over at Peter.

"I can't bring Nathan back, Peter," he said, enjoying the stunned look on Peter's face. "But I can swing a sledgehammer."

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7

_Yes, this is a little chapter. But I'm going to start a new chapter format for the next few sections, and that begins after this one. Enjoy, and review!_

Part Seven

"I think I have a blister on my thumb."

"You don't have a blister because your hand's not real," Peter muttered, sighing as he leaned his head back in the arm chair and gazed out through the darkened window. Sylar sat at his desk, his work lamp the only light in the room. He clicked a watch piece into place, then set the watch down.

"This light is giving me a headache."

"You don't have a headache," Peter grunted.

"—because my head's not real, I know," Sylar finished. But he switched off the light anyway, plunging the room into darkness. Sylar's chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. Peter sat up, tensing a little. He grudgingly acknowledged that Sylar didn't mean to do it, but he cast the creepy vampire-like aura around himself after the sun went down. He heard Sylar take a breath.

"So…about this Emma…"

"Not talking about her," Peter said, studying the window. Sylar let out a short laugh.

"You want me to save somebody and you won't even tell me what she looks like?"

"Blonde hair, hazel eyes, average height," Peter answered.

"_That's _helpful," Sylar muttered.

"Best I can do." Peter folded his arms over his chest.

"Is she pretty?"

"Yes. No," Peter suddenly frowned. "I mean…What do you mean?"

Sylar's chair creaked as if he had moved to sit forward.

"I mean, when you see her, do you think, 'Wow, she's pretty'?"

Peter considered a moment.

"No. I mean…I've never really been like that," he mused. "Maybe it has something to do with my power, but…I tend to look inside people first. See what's underneath."

"And she's pretty…underneath?" Sylar ventured. Peter's voice quieted.

"She's beautiful."

That statement rested in the air a moment. Peter could almost see Sylar's brow furrow.

"Are you going to tell her that?"

"You know, Sylar, right now I'm kinda distracted by the whole saving her from killing lots of people thing," Peter shot back into the darkness.

"Understandable," Sylar acknowledged. He waited a beat. "After that?"

"I don't know, okay?" Peter barked. "Why do you care?

"Just curious," Sylar replied placidly. "I'm intrigued by the concept of hiding what one is really feeling. I've never made a habit of it."

"No, really?" Peter rolled his eyes.

"I'll ignore that comment," Sylar said, voice flat. Peter leaned back in the chair again, staring up at the void of blackness that was the ceiling.

"Well, Sylar, if you ever meet a girl that you think you might have one chance in a billion with, and you don't want to terrify her, you might guard yourself a little closer."

"Too late for that."

Peter frowned at the ceiling.

"Why? It could happen." He shrugged. "You're not dead yet."

"No, I mean, I've already met her."

Peter sat up slowly and looked forward, trying to penetrate the darkness where Sylar sat. But he could see nothing.

"And…?" Peter pressed. Sylar gave a sigh.

"_You_ would trust me before she would."

Peter considered, shifting his shoulders and deciding to fudge a lot, just for the sake of argument.

"Well…There might be another girl who—"

"No, there isn't," Sylar stated. "I made my choice a long time ago, before I realized I was making it. But now that I think about her…I would still choose her now, if it was up to me."

Peter cocked his head.

"Why?"

For a long while, Sylar was silent. And when his voice came out of the darkness, it was quiet, contemplative, as if he was speaking to himself.

"She and I are so similar. Cut out of the same cloth. But she's…She's better than I am. More whole. Stronger. She would rather be wanted than feared. But I do know one thing: if Parkman trapped _her _in a nightmare, it would look just like this one."

Peter stared intently at the space where Sylar should be.

"How do you know all that about her? I mean, if she hates you, I doubt she'd tell you what scares her the most."

Sylar hesitated a moment.

"I got the ability to find out someone's deepest feelings by touch."

"So you cornered her in some back alley someplace?" Peter accused.

"No, not at all." Sylar paused. "I kissed her."

Peter's mouth fell open. _That _was a new angle. Peter had _never_ heard of Sylar finding out information in such a gentle manner before. He couldn't think of a reply. And then he realized Sylar was waiting, tensely, for Peter's verdict. Peter'r brow furrowed, trying hard to think of what was going through Sylar's mind.

"You think you love her?" Peter finally asked.

"I don't know." Sylar halted a moment. "I would like to. But I don't think I know how."

"It's not complicated," Peter told him, trying not to be reminded of the monster he was talking to. "If you think of her before yourself, if her health and safety matter more to you than your own, and you'd do whatever it took to protect her, then you love her."

"So you love Emma."

Peter blinked.

"No."

Sylar's chair squeaked again.

"But you just said—"

"No, it's more complicated than that with her and me," Peter cut him off, his face hot.

"Um…pardon me while I'm confused. I thought you said that it _wasn't _complicated,"

"I was talking about _you!" _Peter retorted. "If you've already picked her out, you just have to figure out how to love her right and see if you can get her to love you back. That's it."

"Not sure about that," Sylar chuckled darkly. "I'm not exactly Prince Charming. More like…Beauty and the Beast."

"Yeah, well, the last time I checked," Peter said, kicking back in the chair again. "That story didn't exactly end with 'And the Beast lived miserably by himself ever after."

Sylar said nothing for a long moment.

"Yes," he finally murmured. "You're right."

Peter tried to close his eyes and end the conversation. But then a cold sensation began working its way up his arms, and before he knew it, he sat up again and cleared his throat.

"So is this…Beauty of yours…Anyone I know?"

"Not talking about that."

Peter's eyebrows went up.

"So she is?"

"Look, Peter, this secrecy stuff goes both ways."

"I'll tell you about Emma," Peter said hastily.

"Bribery will not avail you," Sylar said, and Peter heard him stand up. "I'm going to the roof."

And he left before Peter could argue.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

_I got the wristwatch info from a piece of advice posted by a user called bigTagFan at a site called FixYa—I didn't know it and couldn't make it up (and related it closely, because it's technical)—I DID have to research! Thanks for the reviews, as always! Keep them up! :)_

Part Eight

Year One

Snapshots

"Peter? Have you read this one?" Sylar strode into the alley without his coat, holding a leather-bound book out in his left hand.

"Where have you been? I've been working for half an hour already," Peter switched his hammer to the other hand and swung.

_Thud. Thud. Thud_.

"But have you read it?" Sylar pressed, coming up next to him. Peter sighed and pulled the hammer down, turning to him.

"Lemme think, Sylar—if _you _haven't read it, it stands to reason—"

"I know, I know," Sylar's brow was stormy, his gaze downcast. Peter frowned at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Sylar dismissed it. "_Obviously _you read it if it's here, but did you read the whole thing?" "What is it?" Peter asked, holding out a hand. Sylar let out half a breath, then handed it to him.

It was a heavy book, black leather, with gold lettering on the front and side that said HOLY BIBLE. Peter nodded.

"Yeah, I've read it. Not straight through all at once, but at different times I've gotten through most of it. But you might find some blank spots in Leviticus." Peter handed it back to him, picked up his hammer and turned his back on Sylar. "I used to read _that_ section to make me go to sleep."

"How does it end?"

Peter stopped. Sylar's voice had sounded like a little boy who had awaked from a bad dream, searching for reassurance from a parent. Peter stared at him, and Sylar's gaze opened up with a vulnerability that perplexed him.

"It ends good," Peter nodded.

"It has a good ending?" Sylar pressed.

"Yeah," Peter assured him, shifting his grip on his hammer. "The good guys win."

Sylar's gaze flickered, and half a smile crossed his mouth. Peter landed another blow against the Wall.

"You can read that tonight," Peter said. "Come help with this first."

"Right," Sylar said quickly, ducking toward the stack of hammers. "Right."

VVV

"You've been reading that for a week now," Peter observed from his seat by the window as he watched the always-full moon rise. "Where are you?"

"Leviticus," Sylar replied, hunched over the big book on his desk, reading by his work light. "I cannot believe you fell asleep during this—it's fascinating."

"Whatever you say," Peter grunted. "I liked the later books—you know, David and Goliath, and that stuff."

Sylar's eyes narrowed.

"I've heard of that, of course," he said. "The boy who kills a giant with a slingshot—"

"And grows up into a king," Peter finished. Sylar met his gaze and grinned like a kid. Peter shook his head in amazement, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"Are you going to be done soon?" he asked. "I'd like to sleep."

"You don't need to sleep," Sylar said absently. "You're not real."

Peter chuckled, and tried to ignore the light, which stayed on well into the night.

VVV

"We can hit up this grocery store down here, at least," Sylar said, pointing, as the two of them strode down the middle of the street at midday. "It had bottled water last time."

Peter rammed his hands in his pockets, wanting to kick a rock along, but finding none.

"So when are you going to tell me the name of your girl?"

"Never," Sylar said, lifting his face to the sun.

"Come _on_," Peter protested. "You can't get all that stuff from me about Emma and then not say a word about _yours _for I don't know how long."

Sylar grinned.

"Oh, but it's so fun to torment you about your girlfriend. I doubt you'd find any material for teasing me in my story."

"Then _what_ are you afraid of?"

Sylar reached up and felt the bridge of his nose with both hands.

"Yep, still a little crooked."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter demanded.

"I like my face. I like it _best_ when it isn't black and blue," Sylar answered. Peter raised his eyebrows.

"So you think I'd beat you up?"

Sylar shrugged.

"I don't know—you might use it as an excuse."

"Sylar—"

"Hope you brought your credit card. I forgot my wallet back at the clock room," Sylar said lightly, stepping up the curb and into the empty grocery store. Growling in his throat, Peter followed him.

VVV

_Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud_.

"Have you ever considered how incredible Moses was?"

"Dunno," Peter winced, giving an extra burst to his muscles to keep up with Sylar. They hammered alternately, like a machine.

"Almost got killed as a baby," Sylar went on, never breaking rhythm. "But happened to land in the lap of _Pharaoh's daughter_. Grew up as an Egyptian royal, and then turned completely around and led his people out of slavery. Not to mention talking face-to-face with God."

"I know. Pretty awesome," Peter agreed.

_Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud._

"I didn't find any missing spots in Leviticus," Sylar said.

"That's good," Peter chuckled. "My mind must have recorded it even if I wasn't paying attention."

Sylar shook his head once.

"You should read it again when I'm done."

"You've already been reading for more than a month. I think you've _re-_read a bunch of it. We'll be out of here before you're done."

"I would assume there are copies out _there_, too," Sylar countered. Peter flawlessly switched his grip and stepped left as Sylar fluidly stepped to the right—they traded places without a hitch and Peter struck first.

"Yeah, you're right," Peter admitted. "I probably should."

VVV

"Okay, I can't tell the difference," Peter huffed.

"What? It's deafening," Sylar said. "Listen harder—push it up against your ear."

Peter let out a long, exasperated sigh and pressed his wristwatch harder to his right ear. Sylar waited, watching him expectantly from the other side of the desk. Peter closed his eyes, concentrating, then shook his head.

"No, I don't hear it."

"Here, put this one to your other ear," Sylar handed him another, older watch. Peter took it from him and pushed it to his left ear. The two pairs of ticking smacked against each other inside his head, and as Peter squeezed his eyes shut and his brow furrowed, he now realized there was a definite difference in the right hand watch.

"This one's fast—mine is fast," he shook it.

"Bingo," Sylar snapped his fingers. "Now, most of the time, when a watch with a mechanical movement is running fast, it's because the adjustment on the hairspring has advanced too far. Since it wasn't running fast to begin with, I assume it's because something knocked loose recently. Now, it's possible that a drop of oil was on the hairspring, and by knocking the watch, two coils are now stuck together by the oil. This usually only happens if it has been over oiled by an amateur watch repairer, of course," Sylar rolled his eyes, amused. "Magnetization is possible, but unlikely, since it hasn't been around big coils of wire that are carrying a huge current."

Peter held both watches in front of him.

"Wow. That's really a science."

"It is indeed," Sylar nodded. "And, if you're intrigued, I'll show you how to fix it."

Peter shrugged, put the watches down and got up out of Sylar's desk chair. Sylar seated himself there, pulled the lamp closer and began digging out his tools. Peter snagged his chair by the window, dragged it over and sat in front of the desk. He propped his elbows on the desk as Sylar bent over the watch.

"Now, the trick is to have a small enough screwdriver, and to get the back off without scratching it," Sylar said, twirling a tiny screwdriver in his hand. "Which, fortunately, I do…and I've done millions of times. Watch this, Pete."

VVV

"Hey, what are you doing out here?" Peter rubbed his face as he squinted down the dark alley. He could see nothing except that which the moonlight illuminated—which was the dark form of Sylar, hammering unevenly against the Wall with more fury than was necessary. Peter strode forward, Sylar seemingly oblivious to his presence, until Peter grabbed his shoulder.

"Hey!" he shouted. Sylar stopped and dropped the hammer, panting hard and sweating. He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"What is going on?" Peter demanded.

"Beginning of Job," Sylar said, his voice shaking and hoarse.

"What about it?" Peter wondered.

"The man lost everything. His livestock, all his possessions, and a house fell down and crushed all his children just because the devil thought it would be interesting," Sylar said in a rush. "And it wasn't like he got to take time to recover in between—no, that all happened to him _at once_." Sylar lifted his head and his eyes frantically searched Peter's. "How could he live, how could he go on after that?"

Peter studied him, pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together as he realized that this was about more than just Job, or Moses—or Captain Ahab or Sydney Carton, for that matter. Peter hesitated, then put a hand on Sylar's shoulder.

"I know you don't want to," Peter said. "But that's a story you really _do _need to finish. Right now."

Sylar looked at him through the haze. Peter slapped his arm and turned back toward the building.

"It'll make you feel better so you can quit bashing this wall and I can rest."

"Thank you, Peter," Sylar said faintly from behind him. "I will if you say so."

VVV

_Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud._

_ Thud. _

"Do you know how long it's been since I started reading that Bible?"

"Do _not _tell me, okay?" Peter gritted. "I told you, we've got a rule about that."

"I'm in the New Testament now."

"What book?"

"Timothy."

"What do you think of it?"

"Amazing," Sylar marveled. "There are things all over the place in the New Testament that refer to prophecies in the Old Testament. It's a fascinating thing to read all the way through. I don't know why you never did."

"Not many people do. Probably don't have the time," Peter supposed. He hefted his hammer, and they swiftly changed places.

"It's interesting to see how like your namesake you are."

Peter stopped hammering and looked at him. Sylar struck one more time before slipping his hammer into one hand and rubbing a brick with his thumb.

"My namesake?" Peter repeated, breathing hard.

"Yes, Simon Peter," Sylar smiled. "The fisher of men."

Peter frowned.

"I'm like him?"

Sylar shrugged with one shoulder and nodded.

"Impetuous, stubborn, hot-tempered, brash, quick to the fight—"

Peter folded his arms. Sylar looked at him frankly.

"Good-hearted and determined."

Peter's irritation deflated. Sylar flashed his eyebrows, gave another crooked smile and swung his hammer underhanded to strike the base of the Wall.

"He was married too, come to think of it."

"Oh, gaaah!" Peter groaned, leaning his head back. "Do not start picking on me about Emma again, okay? Not unless you're gonna tell me who your girl is."

Sylar just kept chuckling, moved to the side and picked up a water. Peter watched him, deciding to gamble—to maybe plant a seed on a long shot, if it was possible.

"You know, you kinda remind me of Biblical guy, too."

"Who? Lucifer?" Sylar canted his head.

"Don't flatter yourself," Peter answered, putting his hammer across his shoulders and resting his wrists over it. "You're not scary enough."

"Oh ho!" Sylar crowed. "Great, thanks." He took a drink.

"You're like Saul."

Sylar cocked an eyebrow.

"Saul the king who started out good and then lost his mind and got himself and his son killed in battle?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "Saul the Pharisee who ordered the arrests and okayed the killings of Christians—and then he changed his name to Paul when he repented."

Sylar stared at him, the bottle halfway to his mouth. Peter whipped his hammer around and braced himself to strike the Wall again.

"'course, he didn't get locked in his own brain—he got blinded on the road—but hey."

Sylar did not move for a long while. And when he finally picked up his hammer and returned to work, he did not speak for the rest of the day.

And as he and Peter sat in the clock room, Peter in his chair by the window and Sylar at his desk, fixing watches, Sylar quoted one phrase, to which Peter did not reply—but he was quoting Paul.

"'Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance," he murmured, almost no louder than the ticking clocks. "'Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst.'"

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you for all the reviews, as always! This particular chapter is dedicated to silverhelix428! Enjoy, and review!_

Snapshot

Year Two

Peter began the day by reaming Sylar out. During one of their hammering transitions, Sylar had been in the middle of analyzing a verse in Revelations and his foot had caught Peter's. Peter had tripped, fallen against the Wall—and Sylar had hammered his finger.

It had only been a glancing blow, and Peter didn't think it was broken—but he had let fly several foul words at his hand, the hammer and Sylar. Then, gripping his injured limb, he had stormed off, leaving Sylar behind, head bowed.

Now Peter sat in his window seat, holding ice to his hand, his jaw clenched, the clocks ticking in the background. He let out a deep sigh that hurt, and he swallowed hard.

It had been an accident. He knew that. And no bones had broken. But Peter could only handle so much pent-up frustration before it all came crashing out, and God help whoever was nearby. He bit his lip and glanced down at his bruised, swollen finger. He had no idea if he was capable of apologizing, though.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. He grimaced and straightened, facing the window more fully. He heard Sylar hesitate on the threshold.

"First of all, Peter," Sylar said hesitantly. "I'm sorry I hit your hand."

Peter just let out a breath and ducked his head briefly.

"And second of all…" Sylar went on. He approached slowly, and tapped Peter's shoulder. Peter looked up reflexively. Sylar handed him a small box. Peter frowned as he took it.

"What's this?"

"Happy birthday."

Peter stared at him. Sylar's face was passive, unguarded.

"Happy—How did you know?" Peter asked. Sylar glanced down and cleared his throat.

"Ah," Peter nodded. "Forgot about…Nathan's…yeah," he said. He cleared his throat and opened the box, feeling Sylar watch him closely. Peter's eyes widened.

Inside the box sat a gleaming gold pocket watch—clearly an antique. Peter gingerly picked it up with his good hand and flipped open lid. Happy, perfect ticking joined the chorus of other clock sounds in the room, and the crystal glimmered.

"It's the first watch I found and fixed when I came here," Sylar said. "And if I'm not mistaken, it's exactly like my_ first _watch—my mother gave it to me when I was in third grade."

Peter kept his gaze on the watch.

"Not sure I deserve this," he admitted. "After screaming at you like I did."

"You're my friend," Sylar said, turning and heading for the door again. "Or the closest thing to it, anyway."

Peter lifted his head to say something—he wasn't sure what—but Sylar had already left.

Snapshot

Year Three

"_Shut up! Shut up!_

_Leave me alone!_

_Satan, stifle your lying tongue!_

_I never claimed to be good;_

_Never._

_They know my faults here..._

_my pride, my cursed lust:_

_I confess them all!_

_Just leave me!_

_Please leave me!"_

"You're too hard on yourself,

Brother Martin.

Arguing with the devil

never does any of us any good.

He has had years

of practice."

"_I'm too full of sin_

_to be a priest._

_I live in terror of judgment."_

"And you think

self-hatred will save you?"

"_Have you ever dared to think_

_that God is not just? He has us born tainted by sin, then He's angry with us_

_all our lives for our faults, this righteous Judge...who damns us…threatening us_

_with the fires of hell: I know, I know I'm evil to think it."_

"You're not evil.

You're just not honest.

God isn't angry with you.

You are angry with God.

Martin, what is it you seek?"

"_I seek a merciful God!"_

-LUTHER

Peter jerked awake. A blue glowing clock on the wall read one a.m. And a deep, wailing, rending scream tore through the hallway. He leaped to his feet, blinking fast and fighting disorientation in the darkness.

"Sylar?" he called. But his voice was drowned out by terrified gasping, a moan and another full-blown scream. Peter flew to the door, falling against the doorframe, his eyes searching the darkness beyond. A red EXIT light lit up the hall to his left—and illuminated Sylar, backed up against the far wall, eyes closed, hair in disarray, arms bent as if warding off attack.

"Sylar? Hey!"

Sylar screamed again, and Peter hurried to him and grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard.

"_Sylar!"_

Sylar's eyes flew open. He gasped so rapidly Peter worried he would hyperventilate. Tears spilled from his black eyes, and he trembled.

"Are you okay?" Peter pressed, gripping his shoulders.

"I…" Sylar's eyes unfocused, searching. "I was dreaming."

"Some dream," Peter muttered. "Sit down."

Swallowing, Sylar eased down to the floor and let out a shaking breath as he leaned back against the wall. Peter sat down across from him, resting back against the opposite wall. Sylar rubbed his face with both hands and pushed his hair out of his face, but even in this strange light, he looked wan. Peter waited.

"I dreamed…" Sylar started, faintly. "I was in a hall of mirrors. And everywhere I turned, there were the faces of the people I'd murdered, blood running down their foreheads, their eyes fixed on me." Sylar bowed his head and began rubbing the forefinger of his right hand with the fingers of his left. "And then they stepped out of the mirrors and surrounded me—I could tell you all their names, Peter." Sylar looked up at Peter, striking him in the heart with his gaze. Peter frowned.

"Then what?"

"Then they…pressed in all around me…and then Nathan came up…and grabbed my shoulders and said my name."

Peter took a breath, but managed to stay calm.

"I think that was actually me."

Sylar looked at him a moment, digesting that, then nodded.

"Yes, probably," he muttered.

"Is that all?" Peter asked. Sylar gave him a bizarre, frazzled look. Peter held up an appeasing hand.

"Not that that wouldn't scare me to death…"

Sylar let out a short breath, flashed his eyebrows and nodded. Peter glanced down and folded his hands in his lap.

"It's just that…when I was little and had nightmares, if I told…Nathan…all the details of the dream, I didn't have it anymore."

Sylar released another long sigh.

"I saw her, too."

Peter cocked his head at him, eyes narrowing.

"Who?"

Sylar lifted his eyes briefly to Peter's.

"The one you are so fond of calling _my girl_."

Peter sat ramrod straight.

"Wait—you _killed _her?"

Sylar shook his head.

"No, no." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "No, no…No, no, no."

"So she was in a separate part of the dream, then," Peter assumed. Sylar didn't open his eyes, but he nodded once.

"She was watching," he murmured, finally opening his eyes a little. "Standing a ways off, up on a painted box, like at a carnival. Just looking at me. And at them."

Peter let his breath out. He didn't know what to say. Sylar sucked air in, his shoulders shaking, and he ran his hands through his hair again.

"It's impossible, Peter," Sylar breathed.

"What is?" Peter asked.

"For her to forgive me," Sylar hung his head, his hair hanging over his forehead. "The way she _looked _at me…like an angel, her hair shining like a halo, with a look on her face like…" Sylar closed his eyes. "Like stone."

"That was a dream," Peter said firmly. "It's you projecting your feelings and thoughts onto a situation. It's what you feel like right now. Your brain's just processing, filing. That's all a dream is."

"Processing," Sylar repeated hoarsely. "How can that possibly be helpful?"

"Well, Sylar, you internalize stuff," Peter observed. "Like…_everything_. You obsess and stew in it, and then explode all over everybody. I mean, most people talk to somebody when something is bothering them, so they _don't_ go crazy. Specials in particular. "

Sylar chuckled roughly.

"Talking doesn't generally work for me. Last time I tried it, I got a pencil in the eye."

Peter winced.

"Oh, man."

"You're telling me."

Peter let that sink in, then stiffened.

"Did you…" He began, then had to fight to continue. "The person that did that…I mean, you didn't…"

"No," Sylar closed his eyes again. "No, she's fine."

Peter tried to keep his stomach calm but it was getting harder.

"It's interesting," Sylar murmured, pensive. "All this time, being here virtually alone, I've had time to look back on things…and I'm amazed at myself. My original power was nothing incredible, really," Sylar gestured half-heartedly. "I just knew what was wrong inside something, and I knew how to fix it. Especially watches. But I always wanted more than that. And at some point—I'm not sure when or why—I decided to do something about it. The changes started out small—just as thoughts, really. Thoughts of ambition, of wanting to be unique. It grew into an obsession. And then, when a window of opportunity presented itself, I took it, and there was no going back after that." He paused, swallowing. "I learned how to rip people's powers from them, and I did it. And the more I did it, the more they became just like watches to me: broken watches that only had one piece I could use, so I would pull out the piece and fit it into the perfect, powerful watch I was building." Sylar lowered his head again. "And somewhere along the way…I lost myself completely. I didn't even _resemble _the man I was anymore." He shook his head once. "I've always been a creature of obsession and extreme focus. And I wanted those powers _so badly_, Peter," Sylar met his eyes for an instant. "I wanted to see what each one was like, how it worked, how it felt to use it. I was insanely jealous of anyone who had a power I didn't. And much later…I was jealous of you."

Peter blinked.

"_Me?"_

"Yes," Sylar nodded. "You get to try them all out…but you don't have to carry them all with you. You're limited, but you still get to be a Renaissance man."

"Wait a second. You have five million powers…and yet you'd rather be _me?"_ Peter pointed to his chest.

"Your power is the best, Peter," Sylar murmured. "You'll never be consumed. Remember that old saying?"

"What saying?"

Sylar's gaze drifted off.

"'Absolute power corrupts absolutely.'"

Peter took a breath.

"Yeah, I'd have to agree with that."

Sylar didn't reply. Peter changed angles.

"Don't you know how to take people's powers _without_ killing them, now?"

Sylar's eyes met his.

"Yes, I did. Through Empathy." His eyes wandered again. "That didn't happen too often, either."

"Why?"

Sylar frowned at him.

"I didn't get invited to coffee or a ball game or a date very often, Pete," he said, voice cold. "I'm not exactly a popular guy. Most encounters I had with people were hostile."

"Makes sense," Peter admitted. Sylar rubbed his thumbs together, ducking his head again.

"Too late for that, anyway," Sylar muttered.

"For what?"

"For satisfying my curiosity by _empathizing_ with people," Sylar said, a tinge of anger in his voice. "The damage is done. And I've done too much."

"But see, you realize it was damage, right?" Peter pointed out.

"Of course it was," Sylar said hoarsely. "I always knew that. I just didn't care."

"Do you care now?"

Sylar's voice lowered.

"Why am I having nightmares?"

"I dunno, Sylar," Peter lifted his chin. "You tell me."

Sylar said nothing for a long time. Peter didn't pressure him. Sylar breathed evenly, now, and Peter once more watched the gears in his head turn.

"I must care," he said. "I _must_…or she wouldn't be there."

"Who?" Peter asked. "Your girl?"

"Yes. She's my conscience," Sylar realized. "She sees all the people I've killed and won't let me lie to myself about what I've done. She has no fear—she isn't afraid to tell me what a monster I am." Sylar gave a half shrug and a minute, crooked smile. "Not so different from the way she is in real life." His voice quieted to almost a whisper. "That's why she terrifies me. Because even if you and I get out of here…" His gaze grew distant. "…and I live three thousand years, she will still look at me like that. Like an angel who won't forgive me for what I did to her."

It was like Peter had been zapped by lightning—the pieces fell together that instant.

There was only one person who could have her power ripped from her by Sylar in the early days without dying—only one person who would still be there when he was three thousand years old—

Only one person who was more capable of lasting hatred than Peter…

Yet was better, stronger, and more worthy of love than Sylar was.

And now, as Sylar sat here in this prison, _she _was his compass, his conscience, his aspiration, his hope, and his unending desolation.

It was Claire.

Peter was all weakness and numbness. Sylar didn't know he had betrayed himself—he was still haunted by his nightmare. And no matter how hard Peter wished, he could not bring himself to strike the broken, wretched man before him. But neither could he speak.

"Do you wonder why I even had a dream?" Sylar suddenly lifted his head, brow furrowing. Peter jumped.

"Uh…what?"

"Why did I dream?" Sylar's gaze sharpened. "In all the time I've been here, I've never dreamed. I've rarely fallen asleep deeply enough…"

Peter tried to turn his thoughts.

"I'm not sure. I barely sleep either…but I remember a time when I didn't even have to rest."

Peter saw a flash of fear in Sylar's eyes.

"Why is that?"

"Maybe we're settling in. Getting used to this place."

"We can't do that," Sylar said, before Peter had finished.

"You're right," Peter nodded. "We can't get comfortable here. We have to change something—change our routine, our way of thinking."

Sylar nodded, considering his hands again.

"Yes. Yes, we do."

Peter sighed, leaning his head back.

"And I'm making one change right now."

"What's that?" Sylar wondered. Peter managed a lopsided smile.

"I'm not letting you read Frankenstein at night anymore."

Sylar gazed at him a moment, then laughed reflexively, and the sound struck against the silence of the empty, resentful night.

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10

_Yes, little chapter…but you'll like it!! Please review, as you have been! :D_

VVVVVVVVV

Snapshot

Year Four

Peter knew this day. It was the anniversary of the day this Wall had appeared. The day he had begun to beat against it with the hammer that he later broke and nearly blinded himself.

The four year anniversary.

It was Sunday. As per his custom, Sylar had gone to the old, stone church down the street to sit in the warm, brilliant light of the Good Shepherd stained glass window. As per his custom, he had asked Peter if he wanted to accompany him. But this time, Peter declined. Sylar had only nodded and gone alone. He knew what day it was, too.

Peter felt unbalanced without Sylar hammering by his side. He still switched places with an invisible partner every fiftieth stroke, but the air was hollow without the shuffling of another pair of feet, another hammer stroke.

It was that morning that the skin on Peter's hand tore. He landed a blow and the hammer shivered in his grip. He dropped the hammer.

His hands shook as he stared at them—blisters had arisen on his palms and now they bled. They _bled_. He had not developed calluses, splinters or welts of any kind for _four years_…and yet today, his hands looked like they actually _would _if he had spent all morning swinging a hammer without gloves. And he was breathing hard. And his shoulders and arms ached, and he had a cramp in his back.

"No. No, no, no," Peter gritted, but he could not stop the burning tears from welling up. There was only one reason he could think of that this was happening to him.

"No, no!" he screamed. "No, I will not stay here!"

He picked up the hammer again, hammering as hard as he could, the wood flaying open his hands, but his tears blurred his vision and his balance, and soon he struck wrongly and the handle snapped. The hammer head thudded to the ground.

Peter fled. His right hand still gripped the lightened handle unconsciously as he raced out of that alley, not knowing where he was headed. In a few moments, he found himself in their room of books and clocks. His gasping roared in his ears, along with his pulse. But one sound was louder.

The clocks.

_Tick, tick, tick_.

The clocks that mocked him. That taunted him. The clocks that never changed, yet emotionlessly, coldly reminded him of every hour, every minute, every _second _that passed in this limbo, this hell, this nightmare. Every second that passed in which he tried, unsuccessfully, to break through that Wall.

Every second that he remained paralyzed in some basement, while Emma was in danger.

With an animal roar, Peter swung the broken handle.

Glass shattered as he struck the face of a large wall clock, bashing through its delicate gears and sending it crashing to the floor. He whipped around and raked his weapon across the wall, sending the rows of clocks careening off their nails to explode near his feet. He knocked every one off and smashed it completely. And then he turned on the pile of watches.

He took a fistful and threw them on the floor, then stomped on them with his boots. Springs sang as they released, crystals squeaked as they cracked. He brought his handle down on the remaining pile of watches on the desk, crushing their faces, silencing their ticking.

Peter threw down his hammer handle. It clattered to the floor. He then took up a watch and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. Then he snatched up another and threw it. One by one, he broke them all, tears streaming down.

At last, silence descended, except for his labored breathing.

Then, as his haze of fury lifted, he realized he was not alone.

He spun around. Sylar stood there, both arms down at his sides, watching him.

"Feel better?"

Peter could not speak. He swiped his face with the back of his hand. Sylar moved past him, his heels crunching on broken glass. He stepped around the desk, bent, and picked up the white face of a clock, from which dangled a few springs and gears.

"I liked this one," he murmured, as if to himself. "A very unusual Gilbert banjo style wall clock. Early 1900s. It worked with a swinging pendulum that you could see swinging side to side when you opened the bottom door." He paused and ran a thumb across the cracked face. "It chimed the hours and half hour with a gong that almost sounded like a voice." He lifted his eyes to Peter, and there was nothing but sincerity in his dark eyes. "It's okay, Peter. I understand."

Peter felt as if he had swallowed poison. Saying nothing, he staggered out of the room, down the stairs and back out into that cursed alley. Sylar did not follow.

Peter thudded into a sitting position in front of that Wall, wounded hands resting palms-up on his lap. He sat that way for hours, as the daylight waned, and a chill entered the air.

Sylar's clocks. He had just freaked out and broken _all _of Sylar's clocks. The clocks he had worked on painstakingly and almost lovingly for years. Sylar knew each one of them inside out. He had even told Peter once that they had been his only companions during those first three isolated years. And today, Peter had gotten exasperated, agonized and frustrated, and let loose random, senseless destruction. He closed his eyes. It made him sick…but he thought he might be starting to understand Sylar.

Footsteps sounded. Peter sucked in a breath, straightened, and wiped away his tears. The footsteps stopped behind him.

"Look what I managed to rescue."

Something glimmered in the corner of Peter's vision. And then a gold pocket watch dangled by its chain in front of his face. Peter let out a watery chuckle, reached up and took it. His fingers trembled, but he opened the face.

_Tick, tick, tick_, it greeted him cheerfully.

A hand rested on the top of his head, just for an instant.

"It's all right, brother."

Peter's throat closed. But the footsteps resounded again, and this time they took Sylar back toward the building. Peter closed his eyes, listening to the ticking, taking a deep breath and saying to himself, for the billionth time:

_Come on, Peter. This isn't real. You know it. _

_ This is a dream._

_ And we _will _get out of here._

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

Part Nine

VVVVVVVV

Crucible:

"A place or set of circumstances

where people or things are subjected to forces that test them

and often

make

them

change."

VVVVVVVV

_In Overview_

The time Peter and Sylar spent together in that never-changing prison, though smattered with occasions of heartbreak, exasperation and revelation, all passed with steady monotony. At first, the two men worked on the Wall from before dawn until past midnight, only taking a few hours to sit and drink water, simply because the cool liquid felt good in their throats. But as the months passed, they found they needed more rest. They took to halting their work when the sun went down, and Sylar would tinker with his watches or study a manuscript, and Peter would read. They each took a few minutes a night to close their eyes and doze. But by the third year, they found themselves jerking awake with the sound of the chimes going off at eight in the morning. Neither of them liked this development. After Sylar's nightmare, this especially bothered both of them, as they realized they were losing time that they could be working at the Wall. They tried to figure a way to change their mindsets. However, changing their routine and pondering why they were falling asleep only made them more tired.

In the early times, they had arguments about their hammering styles, their rhythm, their placement, when they should switch places, and how. Sylar had not done much heavy, manual labor in the old life, so Peter had to give him pointers about how to swing the hammer smoothly, and strike directly.

It was rocky at first, with more than a little friction between them, but at last they both settled on a routine that satisfied both of them. As the days passed, they gained strength and speed, and by the fourth year, they hammered like John Henry racing the steam drill, in perfect rhythm and balance. Neither of them mentioned the fact that the bricks never chipped. They both knew the Wall was a mental block, and they feared that if they acknowledged their failings, it would grow stronger.

Sylar and Peter read every book in existence. Which really wasn't as many as they would like, as neither of them had had much time in the old life to do extensive reading. And so, when all the books had been read, they started over. In particular, Sylar read Pillars of the Earth when he was feeling guilty and morbid, or on the anniversaries of the appearance of the Wall. He wore it out. The pages began to come loose, and the cover looked like a rag. Peter read A Tale of Two Cities  when he was alone, and missing Emma. And Sylar read Evangeline when he was thinking about _her_.

Peter never brought her up. He would not acknowledge that he knew about Sylar's preoccupation with Claire. At first, it was because he wanted Sylar to keep talking, so he could find out everything Sylar planned to do to her once they got out. But Peter soon realized that Sylar didn't plan to _do _anything except beg her forgiveness, however unsuccessful that may prove to be. Well, beg her forgiveness, and try to convince her that he wanted to learn how to love her, because he couldn't bear the thought of being alone.

That took a while for Peter to process—in fact, he never quite absorbed it fully—but his hostility about it faded. And it finally got to the point that whenever Peter found Sylar sitting in a corner pouring over the last bits of Evangeline, he would settle himself in his own chair and say something like, "You know, a section of that book I just read reminds me of the one time that my niece was at a ballgame with me, and…" And Peter would watch Sylar slowly allow himself to be drawn out of his gloom and into a story about Claire.

They found out quite soon that none of the radios or televisions worked, no matter Sylar's technical savvy. They wouldn't even turn on.

"Of course," Sylar had said, as if this was not surprising. "A radio or a television simulates a human presence. Parkman wanted me to be _alone_."

Peter had decided right then that Parkman had a genuine mean streak, and he didn't appreciate it.

They both learned the city in and out, but the presence of the Wall, their way out, kept them from wandering too far. They got very familiar with that Wall, as well. They walked to the other side of it and beat on that side. They walked along the top like cats on a fence. They chiseled at the places where it was cemented to the walls of the alley. They tried sandpaper. They tried hammering nails in between the bricks (which resulted in Sylar's breaking a thumb). They tried an electric drill that was supposed to work on stone. The Wall ate up all the drill bits. At last, they had nothing left but the hammers.

Sylar never broke one. Peter broke four. Peter supposed it was because _he_ took out his rage and frustration on the Wall, and Sylar internalized it. Because of that, after that first nightmare, Sylar's nightmares were frequent. Peter always woke him up when he started screaming, but the man stayed locked up inside himself until Peter would crack a joke, and then tell an amusing story about Claire. Either that, or Peter would consciously open himself up to a jab about Emma, and Sylar never missed that opportunity.

There was only one time that did not work. The nightmare worked Sylar into such a frenzy that he insisted upon telling Peter, chronologically, the name of each person he had murdered or harmed, how, and why. He did not look at Peter as he spoke, and his words tumbled over each other in a hurried string, like a computer reciting data. Peter had listened with horrified fascination as the list built—until his mind slowly numbed. The only thing that brought him around was Sylar's distant, breathless voice saying "Nathan Petrelli, I slit his throat with telekinesis, because he and his brother were going to kill me. A man who owned a tow-truck, I hit his head with a tire iron, to frame Matt Parkman." Sylar took a deep breath, paused a long time, as if thinking. Then nodded once. "That's all."

Peter was glad it was dark in the hall where they sat. He listlessly swept the water from his eyes, then excused himself. He retreated to the roof and leaned on the ledge, knowing that he would have thrown up over the side if he had been physical.

After that, Peter often sat alone at night, up on the roof, remembering Nathan and crying so hard he thought his chest would break apart. And no matter how much time passed, when Sylar said Nathan's name, a flash of visceral, white-hot rage would shoot through Peter's whole body. He got good at concealing it. Sylar never noticed.

But he _did _notice each time Peter picked up a hammer. Because, still, when Peter's fingers closed around that handle, he was possessed by the frenzied thought that he ought to bring it straight down on Sylar's head and finally let Nathan's memory rest. Peter never even started to do it. But something must have shown on his face, because Sylar always flinched away, and hesitated before picking up his own hammer. Then Peter's hatred would be smothered by guilt—Sylar had vivid, horrifying nightmares almost every night, and they left him drawn and pale the next day. Lashing out at him in that state would be inhuman, no matter what he'd done.

However, after Sylar's discovery of the old, leather Bible, and his immersion in it, he began sitting in the church on Sundays. Peter followed him the first time from a distance, perplexed. The next time, Sylar simply invited him to come along. The huge stained-glass window in that place was stunning. Golden sunlight streamed straight through it, warming the whole room. Sylar sat in the center of its beams, eyes closed.

And his nightmares began to ebb. His moods evened out. He no longer held those occasional looks of borderline wildness in his eyes, or a roiling black storm about to erupt. The strength he had always carried with him lost its edge, and instead reminded Peter of a steady, unmoving force, rather than a hurricane. Peter marveled at him. Sometimes, Sylar was nearly childlike in his aspect or his conversations, catching Peter completely off guard. Other times, he was stoic, almost noble, and patient. And still other times his wit cracked like a whip, his countenance conveying wicked amusement, but he was like a cat that would not use his claws.

Peter remembered the first time he saw Sylar laugh for real. The cause was irrelevant, overshadowed by its result. It had been a mistake both Peter and Sylar had made simultaneously—a misunderstanding that had stopped them for a moment, and then Sylar had burst into uncontained laughter. The purity and warmth behind the utterance stunned Peter into complete speechlessness. It did not last long, and Sylar's merriment settled down into a quiet smirk, but the change it brought to his face was permanent. The hardness around the edges of his eyes was gone. It made Peter wonder if Sylar had just regained a piece of Gabriel Gray.

They lived like monks, brothers of a nearly-dead order. Peter became a creature of routine, devotion and habit, disconcerted if he was not up by dawn with Sylar hammering at the Wall by his side, and upset if the book he had been reading got moved onto a shelf. Sylar was amused by and compliant with Peter's habits, but often insisted on breaks in the monotony. Peter always resisted when Sylar demanded they go for a walk of a morning rather than hammer, but secretly, he was later glad of the interruptions. They kept him from going completely crazy. Sylar was the voice of reason, of mild firmness. Peter was the voice of persistence, of determination.

But they both acknowledged that their sanity was precariously balanced, and maintained only by carefully followed rules, mainly involving subjects that _were_ allowed to be breached, and others that should be avoided. Their immediate family life fell into the latter category. Neither one wanted to speak of his mother. Also, after that one horrific night, neither brought up any of Sylar's murders. But other things they eagerly canvassed during their work, or while relaxing in the book room. They spoke endlessly of novels, comics, TV shows, philosophy, theology, and medicine. Peter taught Sylar all he knew about emergency medicine—as much as he could relay by simply explaining. The only time Sylar was not a good student was while Peter set his thumb. In turn, Sylar taught Peter all about the mechanics and history of watches and clocks. Until Peter smashed them. And from that day on, the only watch that ticked was Peter's pocket piece. Its ticking was not overpowering, as had been the ticking of the chorus of clocks. They often forgot the little pocket watch's presence, until the little chime went off, signaling eight in the evening, when Sylar and Peter would stop their work on the Wall and retire to the room of books—a practice that became necessary to abate their building frustration at the looming Wall. Together, they fought to keep their feet firmly planted on the belief that they would one day escape.

But as the years stretched out behind them, Peter began to sense that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong. After his initial, traditional attempt in Sylar's room to transport them out of there, Peter had been at a loss—until Sylar had revealed that he didn't really want to get out. Peter had figured then that _that _was the hang-up; a theory that was confirmed when the way out—the Wall—had appeared the moment Sylar decided he wanted to help.

But after that, no matter how Peter hammered on it, the Wall remained unscathed. He then began to suspect that the problem was still Sylar—if he would just get his butt in gear and help hammer, then they would break through in no time.

But they didn't. When Sylar made up his mind, he worked just as long and hard as Peter, never complaining. And yet they made no dent. Again, Peter told himself that it was Sylar's problem.

But it couldn't be. Sylar lived like a saint. Though he still visibly suffered at the hands of internal demons, he was infinitely patient with Peter's irascible moods. He was even kind, sometimes.

Peter could tell that the Wall's persistence troubled Sylar deeply—confused him. He struck it with all his force every time, just waiting for it to break away.

Peter, however, felt part of himself holding back. Though his hammer hit as hard as Sylar's, his doubt grew, robbing his strength. But he would not face that doubt.

Peter refused to consider that this Wall was not of Parkman's or Sylar's making. He couldn't bear to think that they had suffered here so long because of _him_.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12

_Yes, the final installment! Hope you like! Please leave a review!!_

_VVVVVV_

Part Ten

Year Five

It had been enough years that finally Sylar had stopped counting. He still felt his internal clock ticking at the base of his throat, but if he distracted himself sufficiently, with work at the Wall, tinkering on watches, or reading, it would fade into the background.

As he sat in the book room, alone, he absently rubbed his thumb against a callous on his palm. His eyes traced the familiar words, and his lips moved as he mouthed them, still absorbing their full meaning after all this time.

"_Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline,_

_ Kneeling beside him,_

_ Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom._

_ Sweet was the light of his eyes…"_

He sighed, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He couldn't read any further. His neck was stiff, and his shoulders were sore. Besides which, he hated this part.

He opened his eyes and glanced over the top of the book at Peter's empty arm chair. Peter hadn't come back from the roof yet. Sylar looked out the window. It was very dark, and the wind moaned against the outside walls. He set his book down on his desk, got up and left the room.

He trotted up the stairs in the dark—he had no need of a light. He had memorized the way a long time ago.

Sylar opened the heavy metal door and winced as the cold wind bit him. He had forgotten his coat. He stepped out onto the roof, leaving the door open behind him and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Peter sat in his spot, perched on the edge of the roof, gazing out over the empty city by the pale light of the moon.

"Aren't you cold?" Sylar asked, coming to a stop near the air conditioning unit.

"It's not cold. It's your imagination," Peter said without looking at him, his gaze far away. But the usual fervor was gone from his voice. Sylar knew why. He knew Peter came up here to think about Nathan, and his other family and friends he had left behind. He came here to grieve. And it had always been Sylar's job to bring him up out of that.

"Yeah, I know," Sylar let out a breath. "But it's getting late and I don't like being in that room by myself for hours on end."

"Why?" Peter scoffed. "Scared of the dark?"

"You know I am," Sylar answered right back. Peter chuckled. Sylar smirked, then shook his head.

"No, I'm just deadly bored. I just read Evangeline through for the hundred and fifteenth time."

Peter met his eyes and frowned.

"Evangeline?"

Sylar's throat caught. He didn't know why, but every time Peter saw him with that book, or Sylar mentioned it, Peter would get this look in his eye like…

Like he knew why Sylar read it. But he couldn't. It was impossible. Sylar had never come close to telling him. And yet there that look was again, penetrating straight through him.

"Yeah, Evangeline," Sylar managed. "The poor book is about to fall apart—I've been too abusive."

Peter's gaze drifted off again.

"Okay," he sighed. "I'll come down in a minute."

Sylar nodded, turning back to the door. Then he hesitated, and faced the other man again. The moonlight lit up Peter and the cityscape, and for some reason, tonight, the scene didn't look so desolate.

"I don't think I've said this before, Peter," Sylar said quietly. "But I should have." He took a deep breath. "Thanks for coming after me. I know, I know—it wasn't for my sake," Sylar held up a hand as Peter's head turned. Sylar studied his own shoes. "But the very fact that you came here says something. I mean, not everybody would be brave enough to jump straight into this basket case." He gave a weak smile and tapped his temple. Peter just waited. Sylar cleared his throat. "What I mean is…Somehow, despite everything I did, you still believed deep down that I would _want _to get out of here with you, and that I _would _go save Emma. No one's ever had that kind of faith in me." Sylar watched as Peter ducked his head and gazed steadfastly out over the city. Sylar went on.

"Parkman was right—those first three years were the epitome of my worst fear. But you saved me from that, Peter." Sylar watched him steadily. "I was right when I said this isn't exactly heaven for either of us. But it isn't a nightmare anymore, either."

Peter didn't answer. Sylar didn't expect him to. And so, as silence fell again, Sylar returned to the room of books. And in a few minutes, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

VVV

Peter didn't feel like hammering today. He just didn't. He told Sylar to go on ahead, which he did. Peter kicked back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. The sun shone in through the window. He felt like he was getting a headache.

_You are not getting a headache_…he told himself weakly. Frustrated, he kicked a stack of books over. The leather Bible thudded to the floor. Peter sucked in his breath through his teeth and quickly snatched it up, glad Sylar had not seen that.

Peter had begun reading it a few months ago, but had neglected it lately. Guilty about kicking it onto the floor, he flipped it open to a random place—the beginning of the book of Luke.

For a long while, that kept him absorbed—as did Sylar's notes, which filled the margins. The apostle Peter's denial of Christ and his retreat from the side of his master stunned Peter Petrelli for a while, and by the time he reached Jesus' sentencing, Peter was completely immersed, and ached behind his sternum.

And then he came across the verse. The verse that branded itself on his mind as soon as he read it:

_"When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals—one to his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.'"_

Peter went completely still as the hammers rang through his mind.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. _

The heavy hammer used in the execution couldn't have sounded too different from the ones they used on the Wall. But those struck through the flesh and bone of Jesus' _hands_ and _feet_…

And he _forgave them_.

Peter's eyes clouded up and he choked, trying to get past that part. A portion in the next column caught his eye. He frowned at it. Sylar had underlined it in green pen, and put two stars by it. Curious, Peter quickly read.

"_One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: 'Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!' But the other criminal rebuked him. 'Don't you fear God,' he said. 'since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.' Then he said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.' Jesus answered him, 'I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.'"_

Peter let his air out slowly. Something had now caught within his chest and would not dislodge. In fact, even as he sat there, the pressure built. He stood up, put the Bible on the desk, and turned to leave.

His foot caught the edge of a book and sent it sprawling. Its pages cracked loose and splayed out all over the floor like spilled water. Peter groaned and ran his hands through his hair. Sylar's copy of Pillars of the Earth had finally given up the ghost.

The hook in Peter's chest remained. But as his mind caught hold of an old memory, and his thoughts traveled down the ensuing path, the pressure became a driving force. He had planned to go down and beat against that Wall. Instead, he began digging through the cluttered room.

It took him almost all day. His neck cramped and his back hurt from lifting books and filing through papers, but he finally found it as night fell. He sighed in satisfaction, ran his hand through his hair, then took up his newfound prize and, absently whistling the tune to "When the Boys Come Rolling Home," headed out to find some newsprint with which to wrap it.

VVV

Peter strode out into the night and turned down the familiar alley. A light from a work lamp glowed against the face of the stoic Wall. But the chilly night was silent. Sylar was not working. Instead, he sat before the Wall, arms wrapped around his knees, looking up at the crude, stone edifice that had consumed both of their lives for so long.

Peter could sense Sylar's vulnerable sadness. The man never experienced mild emotions—any of them could be overpowering. Right now, Peter felt Sylar's melancholy sweep through the space like waves in the Baltic sea. Switching his wrapped prize to his right hand, Peter came up behind him and tapped Sylar's right shoulder with it.

Sylar's head jerked up, and Peter came around him and tossed the package into his lap. Sylar's dark eyes met his, surprised.

"Happy birthday," Peter greeted him. Sylar frowned, confused.

"It's not my birthday," he said, but he began to open the package anyway, revealing a newer, much less-worn copy of Pillars of the Earth.

"Yeah. I know," Peter admitted, nearing the Wall but facing him. "You just wore out your other copy, and I saw that one digging around." The pressure in Peter's chest was back. He glanced down briefly, then took a breath as he tried to form the words he had come here to say. "I appreciate you…being patient with me. Keeping me sane."

Sylar looked at him. The sadness remained, but surprise melted into it.

"That's very kind of you, Peter. Thank you."

Sylar looked so raw right then, his frazzled sentiments reflecting Peter's so exactly, that Peter could think of nothing more to say. For a lack of anything better, he moved and picked up a hammer.

Sylar's brow twitched, and he set the book aside.

"You wanna know something weird?" He stood up, his bearing child-like again. "Every time you pick that thing up, I think you're gonna hit _me _with it, really hard."

Peter chuckled. Okay…so they were finally going to confront this after all. This could get interesting. But Peter wasn't afraid of a confrontation with Sylar. Not anymore.

"That _is _weird," he said, straight-toned. "Because every time I pick it up I feel like I'm gonna hit you with it too. _Really _hard."

Sylar looked at him earnestly.

"Why?"

Peter sighed. Even if he wasn't afraid, he didn't relish having this conversation. But one look at Sylar told him it was unavoidable now. Perhaps _that _was the reason Sylar had been sitting out here, staring at the Wall. Peter looked right at him, tired, and, for the first time, was honest without being angry.

"Because you are who you are."

Sylar's stark look sharpened.

"I wish I could accept your apologies," Peter confessed. "But if I forgive _you_, then I'm not doing right by _him_."

"Nathan," Sylar said, and the name lifted into the air. His brow furrowed. "If you let go of your anger, you're afraid you'll lose him forever?"

Peter didn't answer. But something began churning in his heart, something old and stiff and resentful of being ignored. Sylar advanced a few steps, his expression suddenly pierced by painful realization.

"So you've held onto it this entire time?"

"I feel it slipping away," Peter admitted. "But then I look at you…I see you killing him."

Sylar blinked, stunned. And then Peter wearily drove the rusty nail into the coffin.

"You took my brother away from me." He hefted the hammer, turned on the Wall, and struck it as hard as he could.

_Thud. Thud._

Sylar came up behind him, sudden urgency in his voice.

"We've been here for I don't know how many years. _Together._"

Peter didn't reply. He kept hammering, even as Sylar came up close to his left side.

"I've changed—I've repented—I'm never gonna hurt anyone, ever again," Sylar insisted, his tone making the churning in Peter's heart build to a painful strain. Peter swung the hammer over his shoulder, prepared to strike again.

And revelation flashed across Sylar's face. It was as if a bright light had suddenly glared through their dim alley.

"And all this time," Sylar mused. "_You_ were afraid to let me out?"

Peter's strength staggered.

That was it. For heaven's sake, that was it. His heartbeat wavered as he struggled to bring the hammer back up. But his hands shook.

Sylar was right.

The Wall belonged to Peter.

_NO!_

He struck the bricks again, and the blow shivered up his arms.

"Peter!" Sylar cried, and stepped in front of the hammer. Peter pulled his next strike and lowered the hammer. Sylar's gaze captured him. His voice was deep, low and steady.

"I'm not that guy anymore Peter. You know that."

Peter had to look down. His throat threatened to close as his heart rebelled against his reason.

"_Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."_

And he looked up at Sylar again. Sylar did not shy away.

Rather…

_Gabriel _did not shy away.

Because Peter could not escape reality. He had been trying to ignore it all these years, trying to hold on to his hatred and rage with a death grip, despite any changes Sylar underwent. But it was impossible now. Peter could do a lot of things. But he could not lie to himself. Not when the truth was staring at him.

Slowly, Peter nodded.

"I know," he murmured, the words breaking through his chest and filling him with sorrow. "I know you're not." He bowed his head as a new, aching wave of grief swept through him.

_He's right, brother. You know it as well as I do._

_ Goodbye, Nathan. I love you._

Peter felt Gabriel watching him, unsure if Peter really meant what he said. Peter couldn't bring himself to speak anymore. And so he did the only thing he could think of—the action that had, unwittingly, been displaying his true faith in Gabriel for five years. He swung his hammer, fast and true, and struck the same place as before.

_Thwack._

The sound snapped through the alley. And a large chunk of brick broke away from the Wall.

They both stared, frozen.

Peter's heart leaped into his throat. Gabriel's widened eyes flew to his.

Gabriel dove for a hammer.

Arms shaking, but gaining strength, Peter brought the heavy hammer down once more on the cracked brick. He felt it give beneath him, felt other pieces shatter.

Gabriel quickly took his place beside Peter—the place he had occupied thousands of times—and together they struck with rapid precision, as the Wall began to break away.

_Thud. Thud. Thud…_

And then a light. A narrow, piercing white light.

FIN

_Thank you, thank you. :D My thoughts about the books they read are below. Oh, and if you're interested in a sequel, drop me a note about it and I'll see what can be done. ;)_

-_First book: Don Quixote by Cervantes_. Application: Peter coming after Sylar so that he might save the world. To everyone else, this seems like insanity (Quixotic, I believe is the word), but in the end, it is a noble action, and he proves himself a hero.

-_Second book: The Odyssey of Homer_. Application: Sylar, Peter and Nathan. Sylar and Peter because they struggle through endless and seemingly insurmountable troubles brought on by powers greater than their own as they try to get home. They are imprisoned, and their mettle is tested, but in the end, they win out. Nathan, because he was a lot like Odysseus.

_-Third book: Evangeline, by Longfellow_. Application: Sylar, and his relationship with Claire. He feels they are meant to be together, but circumstances, bad choices, and sometimes accidents have kept them apart…and they may be apart until it is too late to salvage happiness.

_-Fourth book: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens_. Application: Nathan. He fought the good fight, went up against a great foe, and sacrificed his life for the people he loved. Also Sylar: he fears that even if he has a change of heart and becomes a hero, he will not have a happy ending.

_Fifth book: Moby Dick by Herman Melville_. Application: Sylar is Captain Ahab, spiraling toward certain destruction…but for Peter.


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